


cello suite no. 1 in g major

by erebones



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Clothed Sex, Clothing Kink, Dress Up, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pirates, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-08-20 06:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16550873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Fjord looks as though he’s hopped off the cover of a trashy bodice-ripper, and Caleb went and lied himself right into the pages of it.When Caleb's past comes looking for him in Nicodranas, the Mighty Nein split up to make their escape, agreeing to meet up in Port Damali by spring. But Nott's discovery as a stowaway complicates matters, and Caleb is forced to construct an elaborate case of identity fraud to keep his little friend alive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losebetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/gifts).



> grey's a champ and we're in this together, thanks for the memories and the smut (and the beta!!) <3

Captain Adella is waiting for them at the end of the pier where the _Drensala Vis_ sits heavy in the water, laden with goods for trade. Clouds lay thick on the horizon and a cold wind whips Caleb’s hair off the back of his neck as he clings to Fjord’s shadow, stomach writhing like a fresh-caught fish flopping in the bottom of a skiff as it makes one last desperate break for open water.

“Captain!” Fjord booms, somehow managing to sound jovial and even-keeled. Not at all tense, or frightened, or stressed. Not at all weighed down by the knowledge that there are envoys from Rexxentrum practically on their heels, held up only by the grace of Beauregard’s quick thinking.

“Running a bit late there, aye?” Captain Adella drawls, unconcerned. Her steel grey eyes glance over the two of them, seeming to tally up their persons at a glance: Fjord in his leathers, unarmed, bare arms thick with corded muscle; and Caleb practically clinging to his side, stringy and pathetic by comparison, eyes darting here and there like beetles crawling over rotted wood.

“We got a bit caught up in the start of a bar fight,” Fjord says apologetically. “But we’re ready if you are.”

“After you,” Adella says. She sweeps her arm out, indicating the gangplank with an elegant drape of her sleeve, and Fjord doesn’t waste any time. Caleb tries not to keep an eye out for Nott too obviously as he follows Fjord onboard the _Drensala Vis_ —she promised to find her way aboard in her own manner, but part of him still fears she’s going to bail on the plan entirely. A few months at sea, splintered into pairs and threes to the four winds, was not what any of them had planned on, to be honest. But Nott in particular has a visceral distaste for the water that Caleb fears will keep them apart.

He’s distracted from his worries soon enough. The crew is in a rush to catch the outflowing tide, and Adella stalks about the deck while her first mate, a burly half-goliath bloke with impressive facial tattoos, bellows orders. Caleb is shuffled out of the way to sit on a barrel, and he keeps one hand on the rigging as sails are unfurled and ropes are cast off the docks.

Fjord disappears from his view for a minute or two, and Caleb has to swallow raw terror from clawing its way out his throat— _he’s gone, he’s abandoned you, he’s taken Nott and fled and sold you out to this crew of reprobates, Ikithon is going to find you and take you away_.

Then he catches sight of Fjord again, hanging one-handed off the rigging with his feet braced on the rail, and his mind quiets. He’s halfway to completing some task Caleb has no understanding of, but he seems to have paused here for a moment, face turned toward the breeze, eyes half-shut, soft and smiling. The wind whips his dark hair back, revealing the sliver of white underneath at his temple. Somehow in the interim he’s changed out of his leathers, and now he’s dressed down like the other sailors in his soft boots, leggings, and loose white shirt tucked fastidiously into his belt, though the open throat ruffles easily in the wind, revealing more green skin than Caleb has ever seen outside a bathhouse.

He looks happy, Caleb realizes with an odd jolt in his stomach. More than happy, he looks _content_. At home in a way that Caleb has never seen before. As he watches, Fjord seems to click back into reality and he scurries up the rigging like a rat despite his solid build. Caleb swallows.

A familiar voice pipes suddenly into his ear, disembodied but very real: _Caleb it’s me, it’s Nott. I’m on the ship and I’m hiding. Youcanreplytothismessage._

Caleb takes a deep breath, allowing himself a moment to feel sheer, overwhelming relief before he replies, _It’s good to hear your voice. We’re up on deck. Fjord seems to have made a… seamless transition._

He waits, spinning the curl of copper wire between his fingers, but there is no reply. She must be settling in to whatever cranny she wormed into. He may as well do the same.

* * *

Caleb doesn’t feel at ease until the last glistening spire of Nicodranas has disappeared from view and the sea is just a wild expanse of blue all around them. And then, just when the threat of ease begins to steady his restless hands, the pitch and yaw of the deck sets in and he has to sit very quietly with his eyes closed to avoid being sick. (Nott sends him one or two messages to a similar effect; unfortunately she doesn’t have the brisk sea air in her face to keep her grounded.)

Eventually some kind soul passes by, a teal-scaled dragonborn with strings of sharp, animalistic teeth weighing down her neck, to pass him a small brick of peppermint chew. She gives his shoulder a rough pat, cackling, and continues on her way, and Caleb slips down below decks to find his friend.

It takes some trial and error; he’s not familiar with the layout of ships, and the constant sway of the floor underfoot sends him careening into walls more than once. At least there’s no one down here to witness his shame; for the most part everyone appears to be above, running hither and thither in patterns that make sense only to them.

He manages to find his way blindly to the galley before giving up. It’s currently occupied only by a crotchety halfling in the midst of dinner preparations, but she waves her wooden spoon at him until he beats a hasty retreat, questions dying on his lips. So much for making friends. He leans hard against the wall outside the door and gives a hefty sigh, fishing his his pocket for his loop of copper wire.

A door creaks open suddenly on his other side and he jumps away from the wall. The bit of copper wire falls out of his pocket and goes skittering across the floor as he turns to face the newcomer. The dark grey tiefling standing there appears as shocked to see him as he is to see them—their crystalline blue-white eyes are wide behind narrow thick-rimmed spectacles, and they’re clutching a fairly sizeable tome to their chest as they take Caleb in.

“Er—ah—hello,” Caleb stammers, trying to wrest his face into some semblance of _pleasant._ “I am sorry for startling you, I find myself a bit lost actually.”

He stares at the floor as he speaks, out of sheer self-preservation—he’ll never get the words out otherwise—so the low, melodic laughter that meets the end of his sentence is as shocking as a crust of ice breaking underfoot. “You must be the accountant I’ve heard so much about. Mr. Widogast, yes? It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A slim, sturdy-looking hand is thrust toward him, the deep skin tone stained even darker with spots of ink as if its owner spends a great deal of time with a quill in their hand. Comforted by this thought, Caleb reaches out and shakes hands. The tiefling has a firm grip and a ready smile, dressed simply but well in a slim tunic and sash, the loose purple trousers beneath like something out of a wood-block illustration of Marquet’s bustling streets. Their horns curl in large black loops away from their forehead and around again to kiss the sides of their jaw, capped in silver.

Maybe it’s the horns, or maybe it’s the freckles and the friendly smile, but something about them feels familiar, and he hears the peal of Jester’s laughter in the back of his head as he drops his hand and says, “Caleb is my name, ja. But you have me at a disadvantage, serrah, for I don’t believe I know _your_ name.”

“Hark Atweel, at your service. I am the ship’s doctor on board the _Drensala._ ” The tiefling gives a brief bow, the leatherbound book no longer held so protectively against their chest. They notice him looking and flash another sharp-toothed smile. “The captain’s log-book. She was quite adamant that I finish cataloguing my herbs and medicinal equipment before leaving port, and as you might imagine I’m in a hurry to return it before she finds that I’ve been lax. Would you care to accompany me above decks, Mr. Widogast?”

“Oh, just Caleb is fine—”

“I’m sorry, it’s a bit of a habit. Everyone is ‘Mister’ this and ‘Miz’ that. The Captain is a bit of a stickler for rank, sometimes. And it’s _Doctor_ Atweel,” they add before Caleb can give breath to the question. “On deck, at least. Now.” They hold out their arm in invitation, almost as if they’re waiting for Caleb to be the proper gentleman and offer his own. But then the ship _shifts_ , hitting a wave just right, and Caleb nearly stumbles into them, prevented only by the sturdy presence of Doctor Atweel’s crooked arm.

“Ah, right. Of course. I’d be happy to—only I was looking for, actually, ah…” He trails off as they begin along the narrow hall, arm in arm. He can’t very well confess Nott’s location to the _ship’s doctor_ —who, by necessity, must have an excellent professional relationship with Captain Adella. Luckily, Doctor Atweel is quick to fill in his blanks.

“Your bunk? Of course the Captain forgot to direct you there. Very well, a quick detour.”

Detour or not, Caleb finds himself being led up on deck once more. The breeze is still stiff, catching up the sails into enormous billowing shapes, and Caleb wraps his coat around himself tightly to keep it from flapping away like a great tattered seabird. Unbothered by the wind, though it tugs at their long strands of tightly-coiled hair, Doctor Atweel leads the way toward the back—the aft, Caleb reminds himself—of the ship, up the stairs to the quarter deck. The wheel is positioned here, just below the poop deck, and behind it to either side are two doors, paneled in frosted glass nearly as thick as one of Caleb’s heirloom books. Beyond them, a series of steps lead directly down to a set of handsome double doors no doubt leading to the captain’s office and private chambers. Doctor Atweel directs him instead leftward down the narrow hall and opens the little door at the end of it, ushering him in.

“The guest quarters, Mr. Widogast. A bit sparse, as we weren’t expecting company until quite late, but I trust you’ll find them comfortable.”

In truth, it’s far more than Caleb expected. A private chamber all to himself, if small and low-ceilinged, seems a most princely gift. There is a writing desk bolted to the wall, a little round porthole peering out over the sea beyond, and on the right-hand side a sturdy bunk built straight into the wall, made over with well-worn linens and a faded but serviceable quilt folded at the end of it. In one corner is a heavy porcelain chamber pot. Overall a plain and unassuming room. Just how he likes it. The faint smell of salt and cedar fills Caleb’s nose, and a little bit of tension unwinds at the back of his neck.

“It’s lovely,” he says, utterly truthful. He runs his fingertips of the lip of the writing desk and they come away clean. Someone at least had time to dust the place, which is more than he would think to ask of a ship always on the verge of weighing anchor.

“Well. I’m glad it meets your approval.” Doctor Atweel sounds… pleasantly surprised. When Caleb turns, they’re regarding him with a muted half-smile behind their glasses. “I can see you’re a bit weary, so I’ll leave you. I hope you’ll consider joining the Captain and I for dinner—we often take our meals together in her office. It’s the first room as you come down the stairs back there, but I’ll fetch you when it’s time.”

Caleb isn’t sure his stomach will be up to dinner quite so soon, but he nods his agreement and breathes a little sigh of relief when the Doctor takes their leave. They’re nice enough—and it was particularly kind of them to show him to his chamber—but his bones are nearly aching with the need to sit in a quiet place and just be alone.

It’s only now that he remembers he left his copper wire on the floor outside the galley. He doesn’t have another. He tucks his cold hands under his armpits and wishes he’d thought to retrieve it. He wants to hear Nott’s voice, a bit of comfort in lieu of her slight weight leaning against his side. But he’s just going to have to wait for her to initiate contact. In the meantime, he sets his pack on the chest at the foot of the bed and lowers himself onto it. The sway of the ship is a little more bearable this way, and he gives in to the urge to shrug out of his coat and holsters to lay flat on his back, legs hanging off the bed and just _rest._

A little time passes. He eventually moves off the bed when he begins to feel queasy again, staring out the porthole. There’s a little crank below it, and it gives readily to his hand despite its firm seal. The bit of fresh air wafting in off the ocean takes a little bit of the edge off.

It must be nearly two hours before there are soft footsteps—a light tread he doesn’t recognize, putting him on edge—and the door is pushed open without so much as a by-your-leave. Caleb spins on his heel and immediately regrets it as the floor seems to pitch beneath his feet. He grabs for the porthole and manages to catch himself, though it’s a near thing, and then all the protests bubbling up die on his lips. Because it’s _Fjord_ standing in the doorway, windswept, with a boyish little half-smile that disappears as soon as he claps eyes on Caleb.

“Oh, dear. I know that look. Not feeling so great, huh? Don’t worry, you’ll get your sea legs under you in a few days.”

“A few _days_?” Caleb echoes, leaning hard against the wall. He hopes very much that his stomach won’t betray him now—he would never live it down. “I was hoping more for a few _hours_.”

Fjord steps tentatively into the cabin, glancing around. “It’s nice digs, but you’ll feel better with the wind in your face. C’mon.” He holds out his arm invitingly. Caleb stares at it a moment, trying to make sense of the offer. He’d half-expected Fjord to forget all about him in his delight at being on a ship again. Fjord wiggles his fingers. “You’re not going to be sick on me, are you?”

Caleb grits his teeth in a humorless smile and grabs his hand. “Not if I can possibly help it.”

Before they can even make it out of the cabin, everything goes wrong. There’s a shrill screech in Caleb’s head, loud enough that he claps his free hand to his temple to try and stifle it—the words come too thick and fast for him to make sense of it, and then there’s only silence. Fjord stares at him, aghast, but before Caleb can explain himself there are brisk footsteps coming down the narrow corridor, then a rapid pounding on the door and a shout: “Oy! Does this thing belong to one of you?”

“Fuck,” Fjord says as understanding dawns, hand clamping down like a vise on Caleb’s. “They found Nott.”

//

It’s a short walk to the captain’s cabin. Inside, Adella is standing straight-backed and quietly furious behind her desk, hands behind her back. A sharp jerk of her chin invites them to sit. There are two chairs, high-backed ornate things carved from dark, heavy wood. Caleb sits just a heartbeat after Fjord. Then one of the crew, burly and tattooed, brings Nott forward with a hand to the scruff of her neck and pushes her roughly onto a stool at the other end of the table. Her wrists have been bound in heavy rope, but she looks otherwise unharmed—is even clutching her flask protectively, lips half-curled in a silent snarl.

“So.” Adella plunks down a bottle of something, liquid sloshing around inside the murky green glass. Two shot glasses follow, and a third—she eyes Nott, perched on the stool with her flask like some sort of crotchety gargoyle, and withholds the fourth. “An ex-sailor turned adventurer and his… accountant, was it?”

“Something like that,” Fjord murmurs. He keeps his back straight and his eyes down—respectful, but not pathetic. Caleb tries to emulate him a little, but it’s difficult with the sharp, consistent stab of fear piercing beneath his ribcage. He knows what kind of person Adella is. Knows what a ship like this would look like with black sails and her deck stained red with blood. Nott won’t survive being thrown overboard, and so neither will he.

“And this little fuck right here.” Her voice is deadly calm, the way the sea grows still and flat before the storm. Liquor is poured deftly into each glass, and she pushes two toward Fjord and Caleb without ceremony. The other she downs herself, quick and painless, before pouring another and pinching it neatly between thumb and forefinger. Waiting. She hooks one leg over the arm of her chair and regards them with eyes that are cold like a snake’s. Like the pictures of sharks Caleb has seen in books. “You got an explanation for her?”

Nott lets loose a tiny squeak at being addressed and her huge yellow eyes meet Caleb’s. She’s not drunk enough yet to not be afraid. Caleb digs his fingers into his salt-licked breeches and speaks before he realizes he’s going to say anything.

“She is my friend. Her name is Nott the Brave and she is my dearest friend in all the world.” He swallows hard, grasps for words. But nothing comes. “Captain, please,” he whispers hoarsely. “I beg you to spare her.”

“Spare her!” Adella says, then throws her head back and laughs. It echoes off the ceiling like the sun-bright call of an albatross, and then it’s done, cut off, and Adella slams the other shot back without blinking. “I am not in the business of wanton murder, _Caleb Widogast_.” Her teeth around his name are sharp and mocking. “But I don’t take kindly to stowaways. So I’m gonna need a little more to go on, if your little friend here wants to avoid a month or two in the brig.”

“We’ll give you whatever you need,” Fjord begins, steady as an unmoved mountain—but his stoic face is cracked in half by the _slam_ of Captain Adella’s hand on the table, whipcrack sharp.

“I want the _truth_ , sailor. I want it now, or she won’t be the only one behind bars for the majority of this voyage.” She eyes Caleb like he’s a rack of meat hanging off a market stall, slowly growing rancid in the sun. He tries to hide his shiver.

“I told you,” Fjord says, and his voice is just a hair softer now, pitched back to a deferent rumble, “we are simple travelers, picking up odd jobs as the mood and the winds take us. Caleb keeps our books, making sure everyone gets their honest pay, and Nott is his… er, assistant…”

The lie is fraying at the edges, for all it’s half a truth. Caleb can hear it in his voice. The weft starting to unravel, growing thin, betraying the idiosyncratic truth that lies beneath.

“The truth,” Caleb says suddenly. His voice quavers a moment and he lets it, lets it feed the lie brewing under his tongue. “The truth, madam, is far more interesting, but I must beg your patience and your secrecy. If word were to get out, even to the crew…”

He bates his breath and waits. Slowly, the roiling mistrust behind Adella’s eyes begins to soften. “Go on, then. Whatever you have to say will be held in confidence, Mr. Widogast.”

“Caleb Widogast is not my real name,” says Caleb Widogast. His heart is beating a mile a minute as the lie falls fully-formed from his lips, tasting dully of old metal. “My surname, in truth, is de Marco. Perhaps you know of it.”

It’s a bit of a gamble—he’s read of lineages here and there in his research, sprinkled throughout the lands of Wildemount, and this one pulls at his memory like a thread of fate: an old name, associated with old money, old connections. Some gone fallow, others nurtured. A name built on study and industry, on the invention of clever magicks that are now commonplace. Caleb holds his breath. And, as he’d hoped, Adella’s face grows taut with realization and understanding.

“My lord,” she blurts out, and climbs to her feet. It’s slightly more reaction than he expected, but he lets it wash over him, keeping his face carefully impassive and ignoring the way Nott is staring at him like he’s grown two heads. “Forgive my impertinence.”

“Please don’t.” Caleb leans back a little, affects an air of languishing disinterest. “I take no offense—you couldn’t have known.”

“Even so.” She stares at him a little longer, like she’s trying to peel the thin veneer of this persona back, but her fingernails can’t gain purchase. He sinks into that old skin, the one he’d worn and cultivated under tutelage in Rexxentrum, and the oily slickness of it seeps back into his pores too readily. Like it was only waiting for its chance.

“The truth,” Caleb continues, “is that I am a bit of a prodigal son. My father wasn’t fond of my decision to run off with a no-name sailor with no money and no social connections, and for all intents and purposes he disowned me. Or so I thought, until I received word that he’d died... and left the estate to me.”

The lie stammers, a bit. He has no idea who the current reigning de Marco is, whether they have children of a similar age or whether they’re anywhere near death’s door. But Adella doesn’t seem to catch it—perhaps the name is enough, and the additional accoutrements are unnecessary.

“I’m returning now to claim my birthright,” he says, more steadily. “And hang what any of them have to say about it. Fjord is the love of my life, and I intend to keep him by my side no matter what.”

He’s gone this long without checking to see what Fjord’s reaction is to all of this, but this last tidbit is apparently the final splintered straw on the donkey’s back. Fjord shifts audibly in his chair, and out of the corner of his eye Caleb can see his hand clamping down hard on the table’s edge. But, by some miracle, Fjord doesn’t move to contradict him.

Beyond Adella’s shoulder, Nott twists something between her fingers and lifts it to her lips. Caleb braces himself, and manages not to flinch when her voice scratches at the inside of his skull. _Caleb what the fuck are you doing! Cast suggestion on her or something, then she’ll definitely believe you, youcanreplytothismessage._

Caleb had considered it, but this is too delicate for heavy-handed spellwork. Everything he has at his disposal is temporary, and something tells him the Captain wouldn’t take kindly to waking up out of her mental fugue state to find she’d been coerced into believing their story. No. If he wants this to take, he’s going to have to make it believable with nothing but his wits and his words. To that end, he settles one hand over the back of Fjord’s, lacing their fingers together on the table. Fjord releases a shaky exhale, and relaxes.

“And your little friend?” Adella says, crisp but no longer outwardly irritable. She sinks back into her seat and crosses one leg over the other. “Running off with a sailor is terribly romantic—believe me, I’ve seen it before—but I can’t imagine your family would take too kindly to your friendship with a goblin.”

“Nott helped us get as far as we did,” Caleb says firmly. “She has been invaluable to us. To me. Our lives wouldn’t have been half so achievable without her. And now that duty calls me home to roost, I intend to reward her for her service. As I will reward you, once my inheritance is returned to me.”

There is a flash of understanding in her eyes, a quirk of disbelief—but not disbelief in his story, he realizes. Only in the idealistic confidence that his supposed estranged family will be so quick to sign over their holdings to him without a quibble.

“The story is entertaining enough on its own, and your… paramour certainly seems capable of pulling his own weight.” Adella tips Fjord a stern look. “Affianced to wealth or not, sirrah, you signed over two months’ labor to me, and I intend to keep that promise. It will take too long to stop and pick up another pair of hands, so yours will have to do.”

Fjord’s fingers twitch beneath Caleb’s, but he doesn’t pull away. “I have every intention of honoring our agreement,” he says, a bit huskily. Caleb’s neck warms beneath his collar. “And Captain—I apologize for my untruths, earlier. You understand why I preferred to hold back.”

“I do.” Adella shakes her head—half wonderment, half amusement. She still looks a bit prickly, a porcupine who’s poised to strike as soon as flee, but the immediate danger seems to have passed. “Very well. We will see how this goes. If your little friend causes any trouble, I won’t hesitate to put her in the brig, but in the meantime she’ll have to make herself useful.”

Caleb glances to Nott, who gives him a subtle thumbs up. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Excellent. Two for the price of one. Not bad.” Adella stands, then, and straightens the fall of her coat. “Now. I have business to see to, get out of my office. Sir…?”

“Mister Widogast will be fine,” Caleb says quickly, remembering Atweel’s advice. “I’m used to answering to it by now.”

“Very well. Mister Widogast. You’re certainly welcome to join myself and Doctor Atweel for dinner in a few hours. Or you may feel free to dine with the crew, although I warn you they can be a bit… raucous.” She glances toward Fjord. “I’ll leave the telling of your tale up to you. No one is likely to make complete nuisances of themselves, but I can offer no guarantees. You know how it is.”

“I think I may skip dinner, in fact,” Caleb says with a weak smile. His pride be damned, he’d rather not show up to the evening meal just for politeness’ sake only to shame himself further by getting sick in front of the Captain. He’s prostrated himself enough today.

Thus dismissed, they are ushered from the office and left there by the disgruntled sailor, who gives Nott a nasty suspicious look before disappearing. As soon as the doors close behind them, the realization of what Caleb has done hits him full force. So does Fjord’s hand, clamping down hard on his shoulder. Caleb bumps up against the wall and tries to look anywhere but Fjord’s incredulous face.

“Not here,” Nott says before anything can happen. She tugs at Caleb’s coat and he steals some of that momentum to shoulder out from under Fjord’s grip, walking briskly to his cabin.

It’s rapidly becoming not only an escape, but a lifeline. Just stepping through the door is a relief. He goes to the porthole and closes it to keep the salt-spray out, and forces himself to turn and watch as Fjord shuts and latches the door in perfect silence. A shiver wracks Caleb’s spine and he leans against the wall, waiting.

Nott runs to him before anything else, a small dark blur that clings to his knees with childlike familiarity. He scoops her up with cold and trembling hands. He’s using her as a shield, and he knows it, isn’t even sure it will work—Fjord isn’t one of their marks, fooled by tricks of the eye to see a weary father and his small, sickly daughter instead of a wizard and his light-fingered, stab-happy friend. Still, perhaps by sheer habit, Nott winds her claws into his scarf and burrows close under his chin, and Fjord wavers in the middle of the room, wracked with indecision.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb chokes out. “I’m sorry, that was foolish, I just—it was the first thing I thought of, and she was going to hurt Nott. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Caleb.” Fjord’s jaw works around words he can’t speak aloud, tendons writhing in his neck. For a second Caleb swears he can hear the grinding of tooth and against tooth, wearing away the start of new tusks that are beginning to push against his lower lip, and then it’s just the groan and sigh of the ship around them. Fragile wooden beams caught up together and sent afloat on a wide and dangerous sea. Fear clamps hard in Caleb’s guts, ice-cold, and then Fjord sighs and scrubs his face with his hands, boyish and just as afraid as Caleb is.

“I’m not mad at you,” Fjord says, oddly plaintive. “You can put Nott down, I’m not going to—fuckin’ hells, Caleb, please don’t look at me like that.”

 _Like what_ Caleb thinks, but he forces his jaw to relax, like loosening the tension in a tanned stretch of catgut. Slowly, Nott slips from his arms like sand. She puts her back against solidly against the wall and crouches there, still wary, one claw hooked in the lower hem of Caleb’s coat.

Fjord sighs. “That’s better.” After another moment or two of fraught truce, Fjord slopes over to the writing desk and sits in the chair, stretching out his impossibly long legs in front of him. “Right. So, what’s the story? I don’t want to get any of it wrong when they ask me about it. And they _will_ ask,” he adds, with a warning look like the glare of a lighthouse beam through a storm. “Ship’s crews run on stories and gossip. Almost as good as grog for keeping the peace. So.” He taps his claws nervously on his thighs and waits.

Caleb takes a deep breath and gathers his scattered thoughts home to roost. Somehow, Fjord not being angry with him is a revelation. He’s just… going with it. _Making it work._ “My name is Caleb de Marco,” he says, lifting his chin a little, letting his shoulders settle and straighten. Becoming someone else. “The elder son of the wealthy de Marco clan based out of Port Damali.”

Fjord nods. “I’ve heard of ’em. Their name’s on half the warehouses on the docks there. They’re pretty hush-hush about their own people, though, so no one should think oddly of a…” and his mouth purses a bit before he forms it carefully around the unfamiliar term, “ _prodigal son_.”

“We… we met in the city. At the docks, perhaps. I was… checking in on some shipments, you were making the delivery.” Caleb’s face is already burning, but he powers through, trying to tilt Fjord on his head to see a lowly no-name sailor in his place, a stranger instead of the good-hearted, upright man he’s come to know. “You asked me to the pub for a drink. One thing led to another…”

“This make-believe Fjord is a great deal more suave than the real deal,” Fjord observes. There’s a shadow of a smile there, a loosening of tension, and Caleb feels himself smiling back.

“You are plenty suave when you choose to be, my friend. Regardless.” He flicks his fingers, trying to race through the rest of it without stammering. “We fell in love and ran away, because my family didn’t approve. We made a life for ourselves in Nicodranas, you taking odd jobs, I as an appraiser of books and documents. What?" he asks, defensive before Fjord’s disbelief, "it’s something I’ve considered.”

“You’d be good at it,” is all Fjord says, nonsensically.

Caleb takes that tidbit and tucks it away for later consideration. Right now… “Somehow, in recent weeks, we received word that the line of succession had passed to me. I have six months to claim it before it falls to the next in line. I am weary of peddling my skills, of always waiting for you to return from the sea. I wish to settle down in comfort, spoil you rotten as you deserve.” He’s blushing again, and he’s not sure why. Perhaps the naked amusement on Fjord’s face has something to do with it.

“And Nott?” Fjord prompts.

“My assistant, of course. An expert sniffer of fakes and forgeries.” Caleb dances his fingers along Nott’s head until she growls and shakes him off.

“Indeed. I can remember all of that, I think.” Fjord scratches at the stubble on his jaw. Strange—he is always so fastidious with his appearance, taking great pains to appear varnished and veneered, acceptably polished for the wider world. It’s only been not quite a day, and already that polish is wearing away. “Why don’t we make it easier on ourselves, and not say anything to the crew? I’ll claim a hammock down below with everyone else, you can have this space to yourself. I’ll still take my meals with the crew. You can do as you please, of course, but perhaps laying a little charm on the good captain now and then would help keep things… watertight, so to speak.”

Caleb nods. He feels like he should be more relieved by Fjord’s proposition, but there’s a little curl of disappointment somewhere behind his sternum. He’s gotten used to having people around him, he reasons. Friends. Practically family, by now. To be stuck in this cabin all by himself, with only Nott for company (as long as she doesn’t get bored, which she likely will)... well. It feels a bit like the old days. He hasn’t realized how far away those days feel until now.

“Caleb?” Nott whispers, reaching up for his hand. “You alright?”

Caleb forces a smile that feels cracked and brittle around the edges. “Just fine. It has just been… a day.”

“Indeed it has.” Fjord stands up from the writing-desk and brushes his hands off on his leggings fastidiously. “I should get back to my duties before I’m missed. I only meant to come and see how you were settling in, and… well.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Caleb says again, his voice as withered as an old stalk of grain.

The shallow lines in Fjord’s brow deepen. “What for?”

Caleb shakes his head. “We are… in a very precarious position as it is, and I have only made things more complicated.”

“You did what you thought you had to do,” Nott insists, speaking up for the first time. “And now I’m not going to get thrown overboard, so I think it was worth it.”

“Captain Adella wouldn’t have thrown you overboard,” Fjord begins patiently, but Nott shakes her head and talks right over him.

“I saw where they keep potential prisoners when I was hiding in the brig with the barrels and things. It’s awful. There’s _water_ in the brig, did you know?”

“It’s just bilgewater, Nott,” Fjord says. He’s got a little tuck of amusement in the corner of his mouth that makes the scar on his upper lip pucker. “It’s normal for a galleon of this size.”

“Well _still_.” Nott folds her arms defiantly and glares at him. “I didn’t see _you_ rushing to save my life.”

“Nott,” Caleb says sharply. Best to intervene now before things get ugly. “Fjord was doing his best. Please, let’s not argue. It’s just the three of us against the world, for a little while, so let’s try to make the best of it. Or the three of us against the ship, at any rate.”

“This ship _is_ our world, for all intents and purposes,” Fjord says. He gives Nott and Caleb a cordial nod. “I’d better go. Send me a message if you need anything; otherwise I suppose I’ll see you both at dinner?”

Caleb retrains his dour mouth into a watery semblance of a smile. “Indeed.”

As soon as Fjord leaves, clicking the door shut behind him, every fragile string he’s constructed is cut at once, and Caleb collapses against the wall with a great sigh. Nott gives him an alarmed look. “Maybe you should summon Frumpkin, Cay. You don’t look so good.”

“I might be sick,” Caleb admits quietly. His mouth has that foul, slippery feeling one gets before vomiting, and the pitch and swell of the deck beneath his feet isn’t helping. But by some unhappy twist of fate, he keeps his composure and instead staggers to the bed with a pitiful groan, longing for more of that peppermint chew the kind dragonborn had given him above decks. “Mein Gott, what have I done…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from Bach's composition of the same name, a very good arrangement for which is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ry4BzonlVlw. This fic was inspired a lot by Master and Commander, where that piece also makes an appearance!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a brief reference to seasickness partway through this chapter, but nothing explicit. 
> 
> Thanks again to losebetter for being the beta and the cheer squad <3

An open porthole and a few hours of quiet help settle Caleb’s stomach and his thoughts, and when Fjord knocks on the door to summon him to dinner he’s feeling more like himself. Fjord has changed again, presumably for the honor of dining with the captain: he’s wearing a nice fitted vest over his shirt that Caleb has never seen before, its brass buttons nicely polished, and a little red cravat is tucked haphazardly into his collar. Caleb coughs a little to hide his smile and invites him in.

“What is it? Do I look all right?” Fjord asks, inexplicably anxious for someone so effortlessly attractive. But then, Fjord has never seemed to recognize his own good looks.

“Did no one ever teach you how to do a proper necktie, Fjord? Here, bend down.” Caleb summons him with an imperious twitch of his fingers, and Fjord leans down obediently, baffled amusement on his face. In a trice, Caleb has unlaced his cravat and retooled it, making a simple quarter-knot that lays smartly against his collar bones before tucking into his shirt. “Much better.”

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Fjord murmurs. He touches the knot hesitantly, like he’s afraid of mussing it, but Caleb knows it will hold. He learned it at his father’s knee, helping him get ready for town hall meetings. It’s a farmer’s knot, sturdy and respectable, and he’s a little alarmed at how easily it came to his fingers. As if he’d been tying it every day for the last twenty years.

“I didn’t always dress like this,” is all he says, and hopes it will be enough. He goes to the little washstand in the corner and splashes his face. He feels a sudden need to spruce himself up a bit, though he’d had no intention of doing so before Fjord walked in. Now there’s something to measure up to.

“Where’s Nott?” Fjord asks, apparently picking up on his reluctance. “I thought she might join us.”

“I have no idea. She went out a few hours ago to explore. I trust she can fend for herself, or send me a message if she can’t.” He pats his face dry and rifles through his pack with growing despair. He wasn’t exactly prepared for a spur-of-the-moment sea voyage, particularly one where he’s expected to play the part of a nobleman. He has little in the way of a change of clothes: just a fresh shirt that’s badly wrinkled from being shoved to the bottom, and half of a knit scarf he was working on in his downtime until they came to Nicodranas.

The shirt will have to do. He can prestidigitate his coat, at least, so as not to offend his dinner companions. He lays it flat on the bed and flicks his fingers over the seams, lifting away the dirt. His grimy tunic is flung onto the back of the chair, and he’s halfway through the laces on his shirt when he remembers Fjord is there, still standing quietly by the door.

“Ah… Fjord.”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind…” He hesitates, face burning. He feels foolish—they’ve all seen one another naked, at one point or another. Such is the reality of a traveling troupe like theirs. But this feels different. Fjord patiently waiting, like a suitor at the door, and without the rest of their group around them as a distraction, Caleb feels his focus keenly.

“Oh! Right, of course. Sorry.” 

Cheeks still burning, Caleb tugs his soiled shirt over his head and drapes it over the tunic. The fresh one feels too clean against his skin. He’s bathed fairly recently, a handful of days ago at the Lavish Chateau, but Nicodranas is warmer than he’s used to; the humidity clings to the skin, drawing out sweat and attracting grime far more readily than up north. Caleb ducks his head as he’s lacing up the shirt and gives himself a subtle sniff. All he can smell is salt and damp wood.

“You smell fine,” Fjord pipes up, unasked. He’s still facing the door, but he must have heard Caleb regardless. “I mean, if you were wonderin’.”

Caleb grimaces and slings his coat over his shoulders. Without his tunic and scarf he feels criminally underdressed, but he’s already sweating lightly with nervousness and doesn’t want to compound the situation. “I am ready if you are,” he says, deciding to ignore Fjord’s statement.

Looking mildly relieved, Fjord opens the door and holds out his arm. Caleb stares at it.

“Ah… I do not understand.”

“We’re affianced, aren’t we?” Fjord reminds him. He might be blushing—it’s hard for Caleb to tell. “We should probably act the part. In front of the Captain, at least.”

After another moment or two of waiting to see whether Fjord will rescind his arm, and laugh, and play it off for a joke, Caleb slips his hand into the crook of Fjord’s elbow. His forearm is more firm than Caleb was expecting.

“You are already far better at this charade than I, and we have barely begun,” he says ruefully.

Fjord squeezes Caleb close to him briefly, as if in comfort, and reaches for the door handle. “You’re better at talkin’ than I am, I think you’ll catch on quick.”

“I don’t think _that’s_ true,” Caleb demurs. The hallway yawns before them, narrow and dimly-lit with whatever remaining daylight filters through the doors at the top of the stairs. There appears to be… cello music? Some sort of strings drifting through the air toward them. Caleb takes a fortifying breath and steps into the hall. “After all, you were the one who secured us passage _._ ”

Fjord seems about to reply or protest, but whatever he’s about to say is stifled as the door swings open easily at Caleb’s touch, admitting them into the room. Although the sunset bleeds through the rear windows, painting the room a soft red-gold, there are lit candelabras that dance and flicker with every rise and fall of the ship. Caleb blinks and looks away, feeling a little queasy.

The source of the music suddenly becomes clear. Doctor Atweel is perched on a chair by the window, a polished wooden cello balanced between their knees and a bow dangling expertly from one hand as they pluck out a rich, vibrous melody. Captain Adella’s violin drops from her chin and the music quiets a little as she gestures them in with a bow of her own.

“Come in, come in. Don’t mind us, we’re fond of a fiddle now and then in the evenings.”

There’s a beat of awkward quiet and Caleb realizes Fjord is waiting for him to say something. “It was beautiful,” he blurts suddenly. He becomes painfully aware that he’s gripping Fjord’s arm with sweaty, frantic intensity, but he can’t make himself let go. “I didn’t realize stringed instruments could be brought out to sea.”

“It’s a challenge to keep them in tune,” Doctor Atweel says cheerfully, “but we get by.”

“Please, sit.” Captain Adella flips open a black leather case begins to put her instrument away. “Dinner is about to be served. Something light for the first day at sea.” She drops Caleb a sideways smile, not quite a smirk, but not entirely kind, either. Caleb forces a smile anyway, silently regretting his decision to play into this farce for an entire evening.

Dinner is brought out in short order, and they’re seated around the table which appears to have been made to seat even larger parties than their own. As promised, it’s light fare: cold chicken, fresh fruit, and two different kinds of soup served in silver tureens and garnished with herbs. Caleb picks at his dinner, still not quite feeling himself, but Fjord more than makes up for it. Apparently the sea air agrees with him.

Caleb, for his part, takes the opportunity to talk as much as possible to avoid having to eat. Doctor Atweel is politely interested in everything and it’s easy to aim his on-the-fly bullshit in their direction. Captain Adella seems a little distracted, but he’s happy to have one less pair of eyes boring into the side of his head while he spins tales of the supposed life he’s led with his supposed fiance.

“I can’t imagine your parents were too happy to find their son practically eloped,” Doctor Atweel says as they move from dinner to dessert and Caleb is finally able to decline cake in favor of coffee. Whether it will settle his nerves or not remains to be seen. “Have you had no contact with them since you left Port Damali?”

“None at all,” Caleb says, and the regret in his voice is real. “It was a difficult decision. My parents are businesspeople first and foremost, but we weren’t exactly what I would call… estranged.”

“Do you ever have regrets? I suppose you must, if you’re returning.”

For the first time since dinner began, Caleb glances toward his dinner companion. Fjord meets his eye and offers a small, private smile—not one fabricated for the Doctor, but one shared comfortably between two friends. It’s so achingly familiar—he’s lost count of the amount of sideways glances he’s shared with Fjord during their journeys—that his breath catches a little and he has to reorient himself before composing a reply.

“No. No, I don’t have any regrets. Perhaps it was a decision only a younger, more foolish version of myself could make, but I wouldn’t take it back for anything. I learned too many valuable lessons in my time away. Hopefully my parents—my mother, I mean, will see that.”

It’s his first slip all night, but he dredges up a bit of angst on his face and Doctor Atweel only nods in patient understanding. “Forgive me, Lord de Marco. I never really offered my condolences for your loss. It is always difficult, losing a parent. Even when one is estranged, the loss can be keenly felt.”

Caleb’s plasticine anguish firms and grows brittle, threatening to crack the mask. _Too close to home._ “Indeed.” His voice is shaking. “Not an experience I would wish on anyone.”

Fjord shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “Surely there are happier things we can talk about,” he drawls. It’s the most he’s spoken all night, and the rich tenor of his accent is soothing, settles into Caleb’s bones in a way he isn’t prepared for. A little of the raw-edged panic recedes, along with the smell of smoke and the crackle of long-ago flames. “I understand if there’s things you’d rather not discuss in front of a common sailor, but I’m curious as to our intended route, Captain.”

Captain Adella’s hooded gaze finds Fjord and she offers a belated smile. “A man able to keep his partner’s secret for several years has already proven himself trustworthy, in my opinion. And it's hardly a secret, regardless.”

Like a switch has been flipped, Caleb’s attention recedes from the conversation and he has to dig his nails into his thigh to keep from sighing aloud with relief. The attention in the room shifting away to Fjord feels like a boulder being lifted from his chest. He grounds himself with the coffee in one hand and his fingers clamping his leg in the other, and gradually the stage fright begins to mellow and fade.

He’s so caught up in the swirl of his own thoughts that he nearly startles away at the touch of something on his knee. He looks beneath the table. Hidden by the starched tablecloth, Fjord’s hand has come to rest just below his own, a gentler paw than the gnarled grip his fingers have become. Fjord continues to talk and listen and gesture, outwardly consumed by the conversation, but his hand remains, a warm, heavy weight that bleeds heat and comfort slowly through Caleb’s body. By increments, his own grip relaxes. His mind unwinds. He takes a deep breath and a sip of his coffee, and tries not to blush when Fjord’s hand squeezes gently in approval.

“Well, that’s quite enough of _that_ ,” Doctor Atweel says suddenly, smiling as they push back from the table. “I can’t speak for Lord de Marco but I’ve had my fill of navigational jargon for the evening.”

“We’re on a ship my dear,” Captain Adella drawls. “You can hardly escape it. However, my apologies, Lord de Marco, for monopolizing the conversation. Perhaps you’d care to stay for some wine and music by way of recompense?”

Every nerve in Caleb’s body is begging for the end of this drawn-out social farce, but Fjord’s hand on his thigh gives him the wherewithal to smile and acquiesce. Adella excuses herself to her office to fetch her violin, and Caleb lets himself be drawn to the relative peace and privacy of the window as Doctor Atweel makes a show of clearing plates and pouring wine.

“Are you all right?” Fjord asks in his ear.

Caleb takes a shaky breath and nods. “Fine,” he mutters, and it’s almost half true. His head feels stuffed full of cotton, his skin itchy and hot beneath his clothes. The cracked window pane admits a slight breeze against his face and he sighs, trying not to lean into Fjord’s sturdy form. At least the worst is over. They’ve passed the test, for now. Whatever comes next will be tackled in its own time, and all they can do now is wait for it to arrive.

It comes far sooner than he would like. Before Adella has even returned, Caleb feels a delicate touch on the small of his back and barely withholds a flinch. Fjord’s eyes catch his, reflected golden in the window, as he bends close to Caleb’s ear and whispers, “We are being observed.”

“By?” Caleb replies. He turns a little and is surprised to find Fjord standing very close indeed, close enough that their noses nearly brush. Caleb licks his lips and tries not to stare at Fjord’s mouth.

“The good doctor.” Fjord’s whispered exhale nearly feels like a kiss. Caleb’s half-full stomach twists, and he’s not sure whether he wants to lean into it or away.

His mind flashes through the possibilities, lightning-quick. Adella was no slouch, but she clearly had had other things on her mind throughout the evening; Doctor Atweel, by comparison, has a razor-sharp attention span that he can still feel, pressed to the back of his neck like a freshly whetted blade. With that thought in mind, he rocks up a little onto his toes and presses a dry kiss to Fjord’s cheek. If it can even be called a kiss. It’s been years since he’s expressed any sort of romantic affection, and the gesture feels too brief and shriveled, a fine match for his fallow heart.

Fjord doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Caleb would be almost insulted by his lack of reaction, except that after a breath or two, Fjord’s hand firms against his back, drawing him closer, and he feels an answering kiss against his temple. There is a soft, shivery, self-conscious exhale, almost a wordless apology—and then the office doors swing open and shut again, admitting Captain Adella. The way they spring apart, red-cheeked, isn’t fabricated in the least.

“I have sad news—my violin has broken a string and requires tuning,” Adella says, with the smooth regret of a well-practiced liar. “We’ll have to play for you another time.”

“It’s been a long day,” Caleb replies. “Perhaps it’s best if we retire.”

Captain Adella smiles, her face as smooth and placid as a lake on a midsummer morning. “Indeed. I hope you find yourselves a restful evening, and if not… well. Let’s just say I’m adept at sleeping through rough seas. I bid you both a good night.”

Caleb’s ears are on fire all the way back to the cabin. Perhaps it’s just his imagination, but he swears he can feel the heat radiating off of Fjord’s body next to him, nearly to the point of being stifling. He keeps his back straight and refuses to falter until the door sighs shut behind them, and only then does he allow himself to crack, leaning hard into Fjord as he lets out a desperate wheeze.

“Hey,” Fjord says, alarmed, putting an arm around his waist. “You feelin’ alright, Caleb?”

“Fine! I’m fine, I’m… just fine.” His head is on Fjord’s chest and he can hear the heartbeat underneath, pounding steady as a distant wardrum, smell the faint crackle of seasalt and old sweat baked into Fjord’s shirt. It’s… oddly soothing. He revels in it for a little bit, counting the heartbeats— _ein, zwei, drei_ —before pulling away. “ _Es tut uns leid._ Sorry. I just…”

“Needed a minute?” Fjord finishes for him. His voice is inexplicably kind. His hand on Caleb’s spine burns like a brand, and yet it comforts him, and he can’t bring himself to shake it off.

“ _Ja_. Um, thank you. For going along with that, in there.” Caleb finally steps away, putting a bit of distance between them. Fjord drops his hand and flexes his fingers against his side as if he, too, felt the heat lurking under Caleb’s skin. “I wasn’t prepared for that level of, ah… questioning.”

“They were diggin’ pretty deep there for a minute.” Fjord rubs the back of his neck before drifting to sit awkwardly on the bed, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. Caleb, still a bit shaky from the ordeal of dinner, isn’t about to turn away his companionship. “I couldn’t help but notice you seemed pretty tense when you were discussin’ your—I mean, Lord de Marco’s… parentage.”

Caleb heaves a sigh and stares fixedly at his hands in his lap. His fingers are very clean, his knuckles red and a bit chapped from weather, nail beds mostly free of dirt. He clings to those pedestrian details as he clears his throat and says, feebly, “I suppose you could say it rang a little too true.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Fjord says, in a tone that says he doesn’t really understand at all. “I’m sorry to hear that your childhood wasn’t the most… affirming.”

Caleb chokes on bitter laughter, and it stains his tongue like oversteeped tea. “My childhood was quite nice, actually. It was in adolescence that I… I fell astray. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to speak of this. I have had too much to drink, I think. Or not nearly enough.”

“Well.” Fjord holds the word in his mouth like a promise, round and smooth as riverstones worn soft by the unceasing water. “I won’t ask of you more than you’re willin’ to give. But if it would do you good to speak of it, you’ll find me a patient listenin’ ear.”

The craziest thing is that Caleb is considering it. He tries to retrace his steps, the ones that brought him _here_ , to this exact moment, pinned like an unlucky specimen beneath the cool, scientific curiosity of Fjord’s attention—but no, that isn’t right. Fjord has never been anything but warm and attached. Perhaps _too_ attached. Fjord is nothing like Caleb, is far too trusting, far too ready to throw in his lot with vagabonds and fools and killers.

“When I was younger—” Caleb begins, hoarsely. He fumbles over the words, trying to put them in the right order like a drunk putting his feet in front of him one at a time. The tale comes out of him in pieces. It isn’t like the time he sat and poured his ugly, putrid history to Nott and Beauregard, back in Zadash. This feels quieter. More intimate. His sentences are more sparse and sting the roof of his mouth as he forces them out, face cold and fingers numb where they grip his knees for dear life.

He is crying when he finishes, though it takes him a moment to recognize it. When the chill air wafts against his wet face he shrinks back in his chair and wipes at his face, staring at nothing, brimming with half-formed apologies.

“Caleb,” Fjord says at last, when everything is quiet. He hears footsteps, feels the warmth of a steady hand on his shoulder. When Caleb doesn’t look up, Fjord goes to his knees and looks up at him instead, chafing his chilled hands to warm them. A rough but earnest kindness, one that Caleb decidedly does not deserve; but his throat is too thick with old grief to refuse it. “Hey. Listen to me. What happened to you, that wasn’t your fault. All right?”

“So…” Caleb whispers, “so I’ve been told.”

“Then I suppose one more tellin’ won’t hurt. You’re not to blame. I know it’s hard to believe, but,” and a tiny smile creases his face, “as a very wise man once told me, you can’t blame yourself when you’re taken advantage of.”

He’s quoting Caleb’s own words back to him, and it’s so strange to hear that Caleb feels wrenched out of place, like reality has shifted a pace or two to the left—not enough to _look_ any different, but enough to feel as though everything is on the cusp of changing. He frowns, muttering, trying to find some way around the bulwark of it. But Fjord just shakes his head.

“Take your time,” Fjord tells him. He rumples Caleb’s hair, brusque but gentle, and his hand lingers afterward, the heat of his palm bleeding through the dampness clinging to Caleb’s cheek. “Can I… can I hold you? Would that be all right?”

Caleb plumbs the depths of his imagination to come up with some reason _why_ Fjord would want to do such a thing, and comes up empty. “Well,” he hears himself say, “we _are_ engaged, now.”

Fjord’s grave expression trembles, and then splinters apart entirely, caught off-guard. “Yeah, I s’pose we are,” he laughs. “That ain’t an answer, though.”

He considers it. The answer rises to the surface like a last gasp of air, a shimmering mirage, so obvious and yet difficult to express. “I… _ja_. I think that would be all right.”

“Okay. Okay.”

The bed isn’t far—only three steps away. His coat is folded and left over the back of the chair by careful green hands, and then Fjord slides in next to him, boots and all. Caleb curls into him awkwardly, feeling bony and stiff, all elbows. But Fjord is easy to lie with: warm and broad, and surprisingly soft over the layers of muscle cultivated by a difficult life. His arms encircle Caleb’s torso easily, but he isn’t afraid of being snapped in half, though Fjord could likely accomplish such a feat without too much hardship. Instead he just feels… safe. And that’s the last thought he has before the long day catch up with him all at once and send him into a deep, untroubled sleep.

* * *

The next few days are a blur. It takes longer than Caleb would like to get his sea legs under him, and despite his best efforts he passes through a rough forty-eight hours where his stomach refuses to settle. He spends most of those hours abed and making much use of the chamber pot, but when it’s over he feels like an entirely new person, as though all the rough outer bits of him have been worn away to expose a tender, spritely creature underneath.

He makes his wobbly way to the deck on the third day at sea. The sun is so bright it’s nearly blinding, the wind a coarse reminder of how far from land they are. It tugs at his scarf and coat, forcing him to wrap them both a little more snugly around his lean frame as he makes his slow, steady way around the perimeter of the poop deck.

He finds Doctor Atweel at the stern, surveying their wake with a thoughtful expression. They greet him with a distract nod and smile before seeming to realize who he is and turning the full force of their attention on him.

“Lord de Marco!” they exclaim, and Caleb has a horrifying gut-drop moment where he forgets the entirety of their ruse. It slams back into him like a wave crashing against the hull and he forces a weak smile and a nod. “It’s good to see you up and about. Are you feeling better, then?”

“Marginally,” Caleb allows. He turns his face to the wind and lets his eyes shut, deflecting Doctor Atweel’s razor-sharp scrutiny.

“That’s good to hear. The first few days at sea can be rough for any man.”

Caleb huffs with polite disbelief. “Truly? Even seasoned seafarers such as yourself?”

“Ah, not I—luckily I have a sturdier stomach than most. But there are a handful among our crew who come to me for dyspepsia-related concerns the first day or two at sea after an extended shore leave.”

Caleb wants to ask, rather snippily, why the good Doctor hadn’t offered something similar to Caleb, but he refrains from complaining. He doesn’t want to overstep his fragile bounds.

A voice rings out suddenly in his head, so suddenly that he nearly staggers—his grip on the rail is the only thing keeping him upright as Jester’s voice careens around the inside of his skull. _Hello Caleb we haven’t heard from you and Fjord so we are kind of worried! Beau and I are doing fine, and I think Mr. Clay—_

The message ends. Caleb rubs one ear and smiles vaguely at Doctor Atweel before making his excuses and shuffling along the rail for some privacy.

“Hello Jester—” he begins, and is cut off again.

_Sorry I ran out of words before! Beau’s keeping track now. Clay and Yasha are good but we haven’t seen them. Beau and I found—_

He waits a beat or two and gets nothing more, so he tries again, counting out the words on the backs of his knuckles where they cling to the rail.. “Fjord and Nott and I are well, thank you Jester. Please stay safe. I’ve been ill but I’m better now. Message me tomorrow, okay?”

There is no reply, of course, so he will just have to trust that Jester received his message. In the meantime he takes a deep breath of fresh air and pulls out a copper wire.

“Nott, where are you?”

 _Kitchen_ , is the immediate reply, followed by, _Caleb are you still sick?_

He waits a moment or two, twisting the copper wire between thumb and forefinger in the shadow of his coat. “I am feeling much better, thank you Nott.”

_Come and get food then! Riesche and I are making dumplings!_

Caleb has no idea who Riesche is, but the idea that Nott has befriended the cook is simultaneously heartwarming and terrifying. He folds the wire back into an inside pocket and turns to face the ship.

The wind catches his hair and wafts it instantly back from his face. Some strands catch in his beard, others in his lashes, and he fumbles in his coat for the leather thong he uses to cast mage armor. As he binds his hair back from his face into a quick knot, his eyes scan the deck and catch, like a rolling ball bearing trapped suddenly by a divot in the ground.

Fjord is climbing the rigging. His hair is slicked back from his face with wind and salt-spray, his loose white shirt rolled up above the elbows to expose his corded forearms. Caleb watches him climb, poised at the top of the stairs with his heart in throat—at first because he fears Fjord will fall, and then because he realizes there’s no way Fjord _could_. Fjord is entirely at home here. He has somehow become part of the ship in a way Caleb, landlubber that he is, can never understand. But he can definitely appreciate it.

“He cuts a fine figure, eh?” Doctor Atweel says suddenly at his elbow, as they brush past him for the stairs. “Don’t stare too long, I hear we’re headed for rougher seas. Might be better to get below again.”

Caleb murmurs some meaningless platitude and leans harder against the rail as Doctor Atweel disappears amongst the hustle and bustle of the ship. True to their word, he can see dark clouds on the horizon, bruising the sky like a warning. He sighs and begins to descend the stairs. May as well put something in his stomach before the _rough seas_ undo all the progress he’s made.

“Hey, Caleb!”

He stops, hand to railing, and tips his head back. Fjord is suspended overhead and grinning down at him, held securely in the rigging as the wind flaps his shirt every which way. It’s a bit untucked on one side, and the hem gapes wide to reveal a swathe of dark green skin. Fjord doesn’t seem to notice. “You feeling better?”

“Much, thank you,” he calls back, keenly aware that they’re the farthest thing from being alone—the ship is full of hustle and bustle, and more than one crewmember casts an eye their way. But none of them bark at Fjord to get moving, so he tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, wraps his coat around himself more securely, and stays. “You seem to be acclimating well.”

“Yeah, I think so.” Fjord beams down at him, arms folded casually between the ropes. Caleb swallows against a suddenly dry throat. “You should put something in your stomach, you’re thin as a rake. Thinner than usual, I mean.”

Caleb is blushing now, he’s sure of it, though the sting of the salt-stained wind has surely already branded his face bright red. “I was headed to the kitchens just now, actually. But I’m afraid it won’t do much good. I hear we’re headed for a storm, and that means…” He shrugs, a little ashamed to say it out loud.

Fjord lifts his head and squints out at the darkening sky. “Yeah, it’ll be a little rough. But it’s fine. The _Vensala Dris_ has weathered far worse, I wager. Weathered krakens, I hear.”

Caleb feels himself pale beneath his stinging cheeks. “I certainly hope we won’t meet with any of _those_.”

“Oh, I doubt it. Not in these waters. And if we do, I’ll keep you safe.” Fjord winks extravagantly and resumes his climb up the rigging, oblivious to the sudden slam of Caleb’s heart against his ribs.

_Bloody hell, Widogast, calm down. It’s all an act, remember?_

He forces his chin to point toward the deck and makes his slow, shuffling way to the ladder that leads below. His stomach has adjusted to the movement of the ship, but his legs are still a little unsteady. Just before he ducks out of sight, he hears a wolf whistle and a burst of laughter up in the rigging. He wonders how much the crew heard. His own admission to suffering seasickness? Or perhaps Fjord’s promise at the end to keep him safe from a kraken. Caleb scoffs. _Boastful. Preposterous._ And yet charming all the same. Painfully so.

It’s no secret to Caleb’s own mind that he harbors… a bit of a soft spot for Fjord. Has done for a very long time. He’s been able to keep it under wraps for the most part, but lately it’s gotten more and more difficult. Almost since they set foot into the Menagerie Coast, it’s as if Fjord has shaken off months and months of grim, travel-weary shackles and stepped into himself, growing brighter and more playful as they moved south.

This job he’s taken aboard the _Drensala Vis_ is just another layer shaved away. Fjord is _brighter_ here, boyish and free of the stiff, overly-polite persona he crafts so carefully. Caleb’s chest feels trapped with butterflies at the memory of him suspended in the rigging, throat and arms and ankles flashing like those of an adventurous romantic. Fjord looks as though he’s hopped off the cover of a trashy bodice-ripper, and Caleb went and lied himself right into the pages of it.

It feels, standing there in the dimness of the stairwell, that he really _is_ some runaway princeling. Like Fjord really is in love with him, and they’re facing the world together, heading somewhere better instead of just… away. Running from the ghosts that dog Caleb’s heels. The sharp reminder stabs him mercilessly, and the temporary floaty feeling pops like a fragile soap bubble.

 _Stay on task, Widogast._ Beau’s voice rings smartly in his head and his shoulders hunch instinctively. Gods, he misses her so abruptly it hurts. Beau has a wonderful way of pulling him out of his own head, deft and unapologetic in a way that Nott hasn’t quite mastered.

But Nott is what he has, and he loves her dearly, so she will have to do. Fingers worrying the copper wire in his pocket, he presses on to the galley and tries to put Fjord and his dazzling smile out of his mind.

* * *

The storm, when it comes, is merciless. No one seems to be panicking overmuch—Adella herself stands at the midship with her hands on her hips and her hair whipping around her face as she barks out commands that send her people scurrying like industrious ants in every direction. It looks disorderly to Caleb’s inexpert eye, but within a matter of minutes the sails have been lashed tight and the majority of the crew disappeared to the depths of the ship for safety, leaving Adella and a skeleton crew to watch the angry black clouds grow ever nearer.

Caleb, for his part, finds himself weirdly fascinated with the approach. He can feel the deck beginning to buck and sway beneath him, but it isn’t frightening—it’s thrilling. The prevailing mood on deck is one of quiet, authoritative confidence, and it settles his mind and his stomach in equal measure.

Then Fjord appears out of the thin rainfall that’s beginning to dapple the deck and gives him a strange look. “What are you doing?” he says, voice pitched to carry over the sigh and groan of the ship, and Caleb realizes he’s standing there on the poop deck, no ropes nearby for safety, with a dark, oily sea beginning to rage and froth around them. The first strike of fear curls in his gut and he takes a step back.

“I wanted to watch the storm!” he calls back.

“Yeah, well, you can watch it from behind a porthole. C’mon, hotshot.” Fjord links their arms and begins to guide him toward the doors. “Back to the cabin, before you get swept overboard.”

The doors slam shut behind them and Fjord takes a moment to test the latch before chivvying him down the stairs. Doctor Atweel can be seen through the open door to the Captain’s quarters, organizing loose papers and locking shut various drawers and cupboards, but they rush past to the small cabin Caleb has become heartily sick of in the last few days. A brief, primal piece of his subconscious rises up and tries to fight back, struggling briefly against Fjord’s gentle hold, but the door is already slamming shut, locking out a little of the chaos. Caleb goes still.

“Hey.” Fjord drops his hand from Caleb’s elbow. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Caleb swallows hard and looks up at him. In the dim grey light streaming through the porthole, he can make out pale golden eyes glowing faintly, a rumpled brow, the slickness of a rain-drenched shirt plastered to green skin. Fjord’s shirt is badly askew, the v-shaped front cutting nearly to his navel, and a glistening rivulet of rain tracks down his chest that pulls Caleb’s eyes like a moth to flame. “I’m—no, I’m fine, it’s… fine.” Caleb rubs his hands over his face, smearing away rainwater and salt. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been cooped up in here for days already and I was rather looking forward to being… somewhere else.”

He winces as he says it—he knows the length and breadth of the ship in his mind almost as if he’d walked it himself, just from a few glances as they approached along the dockside in Nicodranas. It had seemed vaster then, with the open sky above and an endless sea stretching out beyond. Now it feels small and pitiful, a cork bobbing in a long and unforgiving dark.

He reaches out instinctively before Fjord can reply. He doesn’t _mean_ to lay his hand on Fjord’s bare chest, or grab for his sturdy forearm, feeling the slight coarseness of hair beneath his palms, but he does anyway. “Please don’t go,” he whispers under the faded scream of wind and rain. The room rolls around them like they’re trapped inside a child’s plaything, but Fjord stays sturdy beneath his touch, a pole to wind and dance around in the height of midsummer’s heady glow. “You don’t have to man the deck, do you?”

“Not—no,” Fjord stammers. Slowly, like he’s afraid of spooking him, he brings his hands to Caleb’s shoulders and steadies him further. “I’m too green in their eyes. Ah…”

Caleb snorts a laugh. “You are just green enough, my friend.” He squeezes Fjord’s arm for good measure, and the subtle flexion of muscle and bone beneath his hand spurs a profound trembling deep in his belly. “Fjord…”

“Yeah?”

The floor pitches suddenly beneath him, and whatever Caleb had been about to say is wiped away as he staggers into Fjord’s chest. Fjord catches him up without hesitation, bracing his shoulder against the wall, and they ride out the surge that way, pressed flat together, Caleb breathing hard through gritted teeth. The ship never quite evens out, but the rhythm of it grows easier, and when he pulls away Fjord lets him go with a slight touch to his cheek like he’s checking Caleb’s temperature.

“You all right?”

“Ja, I’m fine,” Caleb gulps.

“You’re not gonna be sick on me?”

Caleb takes a moment to consider this. “Nein, I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Surprisingly tender, Fjord wipes a damp strand of hair away from Caleb’s face and tucks it behind his ear. He’s blushing again, and he wonders if Fjord can see it in the darkness. “C’mon, let’s get out of these wet things. The storm’s gonna last a while, I think.”

The idea that Fjord is _staying_ puts the last nail in the coffin of Caleb’s anxiety. Despite the rocking of the ship he’s able to hang his coat up to dry, wrap his books in oilskin and tuck them safely in the writing desk, and pry his feet free of his sopping leather boots. That leaves him still a bit damp around the collar and down the front, but he’s got nothing on Fjord, who has to wring his sodden shirt out in the chamber pot and accept a few good doses of prestidigitation to bring his trousers up to snuff. It’s too rocky to risk lighting a candle, so Caleb conjures a globule of light to hover against the ceiling. It illuminates the brief glance of understanding they share before climbing into bed without trading a single word.

“You were gonna say something before,” Fjord says when they’re settled. It’s not quite a single-sized mattress, but neither is it meant for two people, so they’re laying on their sides with hands tucked beneath chins, Fjord’s long legs drawn up a little to avoid hanging over the end. There’s a handy little guardrail on the outer edge that keeps Caleb from pitching straight out of bed when the waves are fierce, though part of him suspects Fjord would prevent it even if there wasn’t.

“Was I?”

“Or ask a question? Before falling into me.” Fjord’s eyes are uncertain but he presses on anyway—courage to aspire to. “You said my name.”

“I… ah, yes. I was curious as to your motivations, earlier, when you…” _Dammit, Widogast, keep control of your cheeks!_ “You were a bit flirty before. I think. In front of the crew.”

“Ah… yeah, I sort of was, wasn’t I. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable—the doctor was watching us, and they seemed… suspicious.”

“They certainly have a keen eye,” Caleb agrees dryly. “And you didn’t make me uncomfortable, _schatz_. Only took me off guard.”

Fjord smiles, his cheek a sweet round apple against the pillow. “What does that mean?”

“Mm?”

“ _Schatz_? I’ve heard you call Nott that sometimes, I thought maybe it was a nickname.”

“Ah… no, not a nickname. A term of endearment.” Caleb worries his lower lip between his teeth. It doesn’t escape his notice that Fjord’s deep golden eyes follow the movement. _Interesting_. “It’s a good idea, you know. Putting on a bit of an act. I think if we were truly in love it would be difficult to hide it, entirely.”

Fjord’s eyes narrow in a clever smile. “You’re saying… leave traces. Breadcrumbs.”

“ _Ja_ , precisely.” Caleb frowns. “Is that a fairy story they tell in the Menagerie Coast also? The story of the witch in the woods, and the brother and sister…?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve just heard you say it before.” Fjord snuggles a little deeper into the bed. “What’s the story?”

Caleb scoffs gently. “You’re far too old for such silliness, surely.”

“Pff. Never.” The indulgent smile on his face wavers. “I wasn’t told many ‘fairy stories’ when I was younger. Unless it was the frightening kind meant to keep us in line. But if you’d rather not…”

He’s thinking of Caleb’s confession; he must be. But Caleb isn’t. He’s only thinking of how easy it is to free one hand from beneath his cheek and find Fjord’s curled on the mattress between them. He’s thinking of Fjord’s childhood, and what sort of horror stories his caretakers—if he’d even had any—had invented to keep him docile. A tiny flame burns in the back of his throat like bile, but Fjord’s weathered knuckles and shy look extinguish it.

“I suppose it’s meant to be a cautionary tale,” he begins, sinking a little deeper into the heels of the Zemnian that clings to his vowels. “Most fairy stories are, but some are gentler than others.”

“Is this a gentle tale?” Fjord wonders, smiling.

“Hmm… no, I do not think so. Zemnian folklore is rife with terrible things. But the children usually make it out all right in the end, so they are worth passing on.”

He conjures the image of his father in his mind’s eye. Stringy and lean with hard labor, but with his hands and cheeks both worn soft with cold fields and the woody, herbal creams his mother made to soothe his weary skin. He had a beard, Caleb remembers—as a child he’d thought it part of his face, red and wiry. He would sit on his papa’s lap and tug on it gently, begging for him to _tell me a story with your mouth!_ (The stories he told from memory were always more interesting and elaborate than the ones he read from children’s books.)

Caleb tells Fjord the story of Hansel and Gretel. About the breadcrumbs, and the witch’s hut—“Like on the island with the nergaliid!” Fjord laughs, remembering Nott’s insistence that there was surely a witch still living in the collapsed bones of an old hovel—and the great oven, and the clever children with their ruse. Fjord is an excellent listener. He feigns horror in all the right places and laughs in all the wrong ones, and never takes his eyes away from Caleb’s face. It’s not as off-putting as it could be.

Outside the storm collects itself and rages on, but in their cabin Caleb finds the rhythm of the old familiar tale outpacing his fear. By the time he finishes his tale and moves on to the next, and the next, the pitch and yaw of the ship has begun to calm. He tells on anyway, watching as Fjord’s eyelids grow heavy and droop, casting long, feathery shadows across his cheeks where his lashes lie like smudges of kohl.

Then there is quiet. The ship’s bones creak around them, and their hands lie laced together still on the bed. Their knees are pressed against one another and Caleb can smell the warm staleness of Fjord’s breaths as they slow, unwinding into sleep.

He watches him for a little while, but Fjord’s warmth is infectious. He feels himself easing into slumber alongside him, and he goes willingly, hand in hand with Fjord like Hansel and Gretel wandering into the wide white woods of winter, seeking adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling personally blessed by the excellent vibes of last episode, so here's chapter two!! I hope you enjoyed <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *bed-sharing intensifies*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks once again to losebetter for the beta <3

By morning, all traces of the storm have been washed away by the sun. Caleb wakes, somewhat stiffly, to an empty bed and a scratchy, metallic sort of sound at his door. His body still soft with slumber, he half-turns onto his elbow to blink sleepily at Nott as she lets herself in, pocketing her thieves’ tools with a sheepish smile.

“G’mornin,” she says, and scurries over to the locker set into the far wall. “Survived the storm I see.”

“Mmgh. Barely.” Caleb wipes the sleep from his eyes and sits up, swinging his legs over the bed with a groan. “Where’s Fjord?”

“Up on deck.” One round yellow eye peeps at him over her shoulder and is gone again. “You weathered the storm all right, then? You and him?”

Caleb’s hand pauses against his bristly jaw where it’s rubbing wakefulness back into his skin. “Yes…”

“I only ask,” she hurries on, “because there’s a bit of talk around the ship about the two of you, and I wasn’t sure that was what… you… wanted.”

Caleb forces his hand to stop picking at his beard and drop into his lap. No sense being anxious here; it’s only Nott. “Before I answer, I should ask—are you comfortable with this? This ruse? I know I thrust it at you without any warning—”

Nott wrinkles her nose with an audible disgusted noise. “If you’re thrusting _anything_ it should be at Fjord, I think.”

“Nott!”

“What? C’mon, you guys snuggled all night last night, didn't you? It was written all over Fjord’s face when he snuck out of here after the morning bell. His buddies were giving him crap for it for ages until the first mate yelled at ‘em.” Nott grins, slyly and with all her teeth. “Or was it _more_ than snuggling? Was it—”

“All right, all right. I’ll take it you’re _not_ bothered and we can leave it at that.” Caleb stands up and busies himself with tidying the bed, heat prickling the back of his neck. Nott’s goblin nose is much stronger than his own—he wonders if she can smell them in the sheets, the mingled sleep-sweat burned there like a brand. “ _You_ made it through the storm all right, I see.”

“Oh yeah. It was fine. A little scary at first, but the crew’ve taken a shine to me and they kept me below with them, snug as a bug in a rug.” Her eyes dart to the poorly-made bed again, but she’s mercifully quiet on that front. “I’m goin’ up above, Gretch promised to teach me some real good knots. You should come too.”

“I will… I will. Just let me get changed.”

Nott leaves him be, quick as a greased shadow. Alone again, Caleb takes his time getting dressed, turning her words over and over in his mind. He doesn’t mind that there’s _talk_ , as Nott had put it—that was sort of the idea. He hopes that if Doctor Atweel and their prying eyes and ears catch wind of the crew’s gossip, it will assuage some of their apparent doubts about him and Fjord. Captain Adella seems amused enough either way to keep them on, but Caleb has a feeling her opinion could change quickly if her lover expressed mistrust.

 _That’s the key_ , Caleb thinks to himself as he settles his scarf around his shoulders. If they can solidify their position with Doctor Atweel, they’ll have nothing to worry about for the rest of the voyage.

The question is how. He mulls it over as he climbs up on deck and seeks out Nott, who is sitting in an out-of-the-way corner. A burly-looking gnome with a shock of bright red hair sits with her, her own arms covered in complicated tattoos and her thick, calloused fingers working slowly over a length of rope. She seems utterly unconcerned by Nott’s race, which soothes the instinctive prickle in Caleb’s chest as he approaches and hunkers down beside them.

“Have you eaten?” Nott says before he can even open his mouth. Her eyes are still fastened to the rope, which is being manipulated into a complicated knot, but her tail twitches in Caleb’s direction expectantly.

“Ah… no,” Caleb mutters. “I must have missed the bell.”

“Just go to the galley, Max’ll give you something. Bread and cheese. Go!” She pokes him mercilessly in the side with her clawed forefinger until he winces and staggers upright. “You’re skin and bone, milord.”

The _milord_ throws him, and he stands there blinking at her for a moment or two before instinct kicks in. “Right. Of course, you’re right as usual.”

“I know I am,” she snarks back, grinning with all her teeth. Gretch looks between them, hands still moving, idly curious, and Caleb has no more excuses. He bows his head and departs for the galley.

Max, a grizzled, friendly old fellow with a stoop to his back and a roving metallic eye, is happy to supply him with breakfast leftovers; thus Caleb finds himself laden with dense fresh bread, cold sausage, and the promised cheese. He’s hungrier than he'd realized—the sea air affecting him, perhaps—so he sits on the steps to the aft deck and eats with his hands out of a cheesecloth and lets the sun and fresh air wash over him. There’s always things to be done aboard a ship, but he has less than half a clue what they might be, so he watches the crew’s movements with intense curiosity, trying to mark their schedules and habits by his own internal clock.

The rest of the morning is consumed with learning a variety of knots—mostly at the hands of his friend, when Gretch is summoned elsewhere—and then Nott convinces him to take lunch with the crew down below where he would have normally abstained for the safety of his own room. It’s painfully obvious that the crew is curious about him. He keeps catching eyes peering at him from their corners, heads ducked to mutter quiet words back and forth down the long trestle tables; but oddly enough, it doesn’t feel malicious. Their palpable interest in him is benign, for the most part, and he relaxes enough to help Nott show off their silver coin scam to a few of the gunners.

“That old trick?” Fjord says, materializing without warning from behind them. Everyone who’s bent over the bowl trying to ascertain the trick jerks back, and Caleb looks up at him with a wry smile. “Are you trying to scam these fine gentlefolk into giving up their hard-earned coin?”

“I was just _showing_ them,” Nott grumbles. She dumps the coins out and snatches the bowl back, tucking it into her clothes. “You’re no fun, Fjord.”

“Just trying to make sure you don’t get thrown overboard,” Fjord says with exaggerated earnesty.

“It’s my fault for encouraging her,” Caleb puts in before Nott can get huffy. “Don’t mind us, friends, it’s just a bit of sleight of hand.”

The gunners sit back, disappointed, returning to their own conversation. But there’s no mistaking the curious ears and eyes turned their way as Fjord takes the seat next to Nott, sitting crossways on the bench to face Caleb over her head. Caleb clears his throat and fiddles with the buttons on his coat.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Master Fjord?”

Fjord’s eyes glint curiously. “I was wonderin’,” he says, in a low voice that does nothing to combat the complete lack of privacy, “how you’re settling in. I know you’re not much of the seafarin’ type.”

Caleb glances Nott, who is frowning back at him with a question in her eyes. When she catches him looking, she slips a length of copper wire into his hand and squeezes free of the bench. “I’m off,” she says, and disappears without elaborating. The space she leaves behind seems far too narrow. Caleb twists the wire between his thumb and forefinger beneath the table, but doesn’t use it.

“What game are we playing today?” he whispers back. The conversation around them ebbs a bit and then picks up again, as if their meal companions are trying just a little too hard not to be noticed. “Are we strangers? Old friends?”

Fjord wrinkles his nose and leans closer. “I didn’t know if…”

“If what?”

“If you wanted to be… discreet.”

Caleb probes the inside of his mouth with his tongue in an effort not to smile. “Not much point in that anymore, I don’t think. Unless you would prefer it.” Then he _does_ use the wire to add in the fold of his sleeve, _Will it jeopardize your place amongst the crew if we are so obvious?_

Fjord snorts and shakes his head just a little. An answer to both questions. “Nonsense,” he says quietly.

Caleb’s chest warms. He takes Fjord’s hand quickly, pressing his thumb to the center of his palm like a kiss, and rises from the bench. “I’ll leave you to your lunch. I should make sure Nott doesn’t get into trouble.”

“Too late, most likely,” Fjord says wryly, but he lets Caleb go with a warm, lingering look that sticks to Caleb like burdock to his coat all the way up to the deck.

It’s a brilliant day for sailing. A bit windy for sitting out on the deck and knitting, but Caleb manages it, finding the calmest corner of the deck and settling in with his half-finished scarf. It’s a simple enough pattern that he can work through it without really looking, which affords him the perfect opportunity to observe the workings of the _Drensala Vis._ He is determined to pick up at least one or two skills during their journey, so he marks what he sees in his mind for later, when he can ask Fjord about it.

If his eyes stray to Fjord more often than not, that’s neither here nor there. He’s the only half-orc on the ship, after all, and his green skin stands out nicely against the faded grey-blues of the sea and sky. Or so Caleb tells himself, trying not to think too hard about how he'd spent the previous night.

He thinks instead, with a mild degree of horror, of the rest of the journey, the inevitable continued sharing of quarters, the closeness he and Fjord must maintain out of sheer necessity. How long will he be able to pass his attraction off as a ploy? Fjord is no fool, and more observant than he gives himself credit for. Even more discomfiting—does Caleb care? He’s no longer an eager, idealistic young man, and he's out of practice besides. And yet there’s something mildly thrilling about betraying his interest in small ways. Breadcrumbs, as Fjord had said.

He gets as far as wondering if Fjord shares his interest and cuts the thought short with an impatient huff. “You are not a schoolboy with a crush,” he mutters, and his needles clack together faster and faster as he pursues the pattern with increasing vigor. “Speak with him tonight and be done with it.”

He knows already that he’ll be too cowardly to follow through, but it’s a nice enough fantasy for now.

The day passes in a tangle of thoughts and yarn, and eventually Caleb stirs himself to fetch his books instead. Perhaps a more intellectual pursuit will steady him. Focused on not losing his ball of yarn to the passing ocean, he fails to see the barrel in his way until there’s a little _whoop_ of surprise and a large, gentle hand on his arm, guiding him in a safe loop around the obstacle. Arms full and caught off guard, he can’t help but move with it.

It’s Fjord, because of course it is. Sleeves rolled up economically above his elbows, his customary red cords looped around his waist in lieu of a belt, smiling at him with all his teeth. They close the loop together like dancers, and it feels natural to step in closer until his elbows bump up against Fjord’s chest and their toes are nearly overlapping.

From somewhere in the rigging comes a coy whistle, like a catcall on a busy street, and Fjord’s boyish grin dissolves. It’s _enraging._ Stuffing his bundle of yarn under one arm, Caleb reaches up without thinking and cups the back of his neck. He doesn’t know quite what he intends to do until he does it—it’s just natural, like muscle memory, rocking up onto his toes to kiss Fjord full on the mouth.

There’s a heartbeat of shocked stillness and then Fjord is kissing him back. Hands hot and firm against his waist. Breath short, shocked against Caleb’s cheek. Then he pulls back.

Caleb holds his breath and waits. For distaste, for judgement. A slap across the face would not be amiss, he thinks in dismay. But instead Fjord’s hand comes to rest with gentle precision against his cheek, weathered palm to thick stubble, and he says a little ruefully, “Well that got their attention.”

Caleb lifts his chin and calls out, in the general direction of the catcall, “What’s to look at, then? Don’t you lot have work to do?”

There’s a sudden flurry of movement, and the handful of crewmembers who’d stopped to stare in open interest jump into action, resuming their prior activities in earnest. Fjord snorts and drops his hand to Caleb’s shoulder. “Bunch of voyeurs.”

“I’m sorry, that was—” Caleb begins, but he’s silenced by a finger to his lips.

“That was very nice.” Fjord bends and brushes a kiss to his cheek before letting him go. “But you were right, I _do_ have work to do, so I’ll just… get back to it.” And he tips him a wink before turning and disappearing up the rigging as quick as a squirrel up a nut tree.

Caleb, for his part, scurries back to his cabin and sequesters himself there for the rest of the day, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just done.

* * *

A quiet knock comes at the door as he’s settling into bed, a small, friendly globe of light hovering overhead as he thumbs through a book borrowed from Doctor Atweel’s small collection. The pages are like new friends: smooth, well-loved, each one promising a small universe within. The knock, when it comes, is almost a disappointment—except that when he calls, “Enter,” with a slight sigh to his voice, it’s Fjord that pokes his head in, sheepish and shy.

“Fjord.” Caleb sits up in bed, gripping the book with sudden fear. _They’ve found us out. They saw through the ruse…_ “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Fjord shakes his head as he moves into the cabin and shuts the door behind him, leaning against it like he’s bracing to be kicked out. “Nothing’s wrong! Er, well, perhaps by your estimation…” He frowns and scratches his head. “I’ve been told I shouldn’t, ahem, _leave my fancy man cold and wanting_. So. Here I am.”

Caleb stares. “Your… fancy man.”

“That’s you,” Fjord supplies, as though it could be anything else. He gives a short, awkward laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “According to the crew at least. Looks like our plan worked a little _too_ well.”

Guilt twists in his stomach and he flips the covers back, swinging his feet to the floor. “Don’t worry, you can feel free to take the bed. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

Fjord’s brow twists with confusion. “What? Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. We’ve shared a handful of times already, right? No need for you to be uncomfortable.”

“Oh.” Caleb flexes his feet against the cold floor, reluctantly relieved. “Are you sure? I thought maybe, after what happened earlier today…”

A beat or two passes before the confusion bleeds away, and Fjord’s face creases in a fond smile. “You mean the kiss.”

Caleb bows his head, hot all the way to the tips of his ears. “Ja. It was very spur-of-the-moment. I didn’t really think it through. So if I made you uncomfortable—I apologize.”

“You didn’t,” Fjord says quickly, almost before Caleb has finished speaking. “I mean… I can’t say I was expectin’ it, but it wasn’t… y’know. Unwelcome. _You’re_ not uncomfortable, are you? With me bein’ here?”

“Nein! No, not at all.” He shakes his head, silently marveling at the pure, unspoiled gentleness that seems to well up endlessly from Fjord’s tender soul. “I promise.”

“Well. Good.” Fjord clears his throat awkwardly. “I’ll be the first to admit I’m out of practice, but. It seemed to go all right.”

Caleb laughs rustily. “Indeed. Well, I am also _out of practice_ , as you say, but. Hmm. Come here.”

He pats the bedspread, the flat part at the edge, and Fjord comes to him with bare feet and a bare, curious face. He’s dressed very simply, shirt and breeches, his hair still kissed with salt-wind where it curls back from his forehead. The golden hoop in his right ear glints in the light as he cocks his head. “What?”

“I was thinking, kissing is something we should probably be good at, if we’re to be convincing.”

Fjord is a smart man. Smarter than he gives himself credit for. So the tuck of humor in the edges of his mouth is expected, and the soft chuckle that follows primes the hairs at the back of Caleb’s neck. What he doesn’t expect is the warm breath on his cheek, the brush of a thumb under his chin. And then Fjord kissing him, just like that—simple and soft and just long enough for Caleb’s chest to grow tight before he remembers to take a breath.

“How was that?” Fjord murmurs in the aftermath, barely audible over the rushing in Caleb’s ears.

Caleb licks his lips and says, straight-faced, “Acceptable.”

Fjord’s expression blurs very strangely, like he’s not sure whether to scoff or feign offense—and then he laughs and says, “You _shit_ ,” and scoops his hand around the back of Caleb’s neck for another.

It’s perhaps the strangest little ritual Caleb has ever participated in. He feels like a young man again, in the too-brief years before everything went wrong, fumbling not to show too much uncouth eagerness as his lips move against Fjord’s. He isn’t sure what he expected from such an act—more sweetness, perhaps, saccharine confessions whispered in the dead of night, a spark of illicit thrill. But kissing Fjord just feels comfortable. The occasional whispered critique is immediately smothered by laughter and more kisses. Fjord tries to introduce a bit of tongue and Caleb embarrasses himself with a startled yelp, which devolves into boyish snickering. It is warm, and soft, and silly.

Then Caleb puts a hand out to steady himself, braced on Fjord’s chest, and something… changes. He can feel Fjord’s heartbeat, now, skipping light-footed miles away from normal. He can feel the push-pull of his breath working his diaphragm like a bellows. Heat prickles under Caleb’s shirt collar and sweat begins to bead under his arms. He thinks, briefly, about pulling his hand away—but the texture of Fjord’s well-worn shirt is soft and inviting, so instead his fingers sprawl out, trying to touch as much of him as he can. Fjord’s nails scrape gently at the nape of his neck and it feels natural to let his mouth loll open, to let Fjord lick inside with a curious tongue.

Then Caleb moans. And the spell is broken. Fjord jerks back guiltily, licking his lips, and the low, simmering heat Caleb had been nursing climbs up his neck to stain his cheeks an ugly red.

“Sorry,” Caleb stammers, belatedly taking his hand away from Fjord’s chest. He sees now that his shirt gapes open just an inch or two from where he’d touched. His palm itches to feel smooth skin, but he shoves his hand into a fist against his thigh. “Got a bit carried away.”

“’S all right,” Fjord says huskily. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gives a wobbly smile. “The Captain’s on the other side of the wall, isn’t she? More or less? Doesn’t hurt to put a little extra _oomph_ in it.”

Caleb huffs with laughter. “I suppose not.” His eyes stray to Fjord’s lips before he manages to drag them away. They’re so much softer and fuller than he imagined—he wants to feel them on his throat. Wants to feel them around his—

“I guess we should sleep,” Fjord says, turning a bit so his back is to Caleb and both feet are planted firmly on the floor. “Unless you were reading…?”

“I was, but it’s all right.” In a rush Caleb banishes the dancing lights and slips the book into the little cubby at the head of the bed. He wriggles over as close to the wall as he can. “Is there enough room?”

“Sure.” Fjord flips the covers back in darkness and lays back. “We might have to get a little cozy, but that’s all right.”

“I have very few physical boundaries after traveling with you lot,” Caleb supplies dryly, which gets a short bark of a laugh and an ease of tension. Fjord shifts a bit and then turns onto his side, almost a mirror for the night before. Caleb stares at the ceiling and tries to breathe quietly through his mouth to calm himself, and then remembers Fjord can see just fine in the dark. _Dammit._

“Hey,” Fjord says quietly, after an interminable stretch of quiet.

“Mm?”

The blankets shift and rustle, and a warm weight is laid against Caleb’s stomach. Fjord’s hand. “Is this all right? I figure, it’s bound to happen anyway during the night…”

Caleb hums agreement, and Fjord’s arm slides across him, not unlike the familiar weight of Frumpkin curled on his chest. The comparison soothes him, and he sinks deeper into the mattress with a little hum of contentment. Fjord’s thumb finds the tender skin of his inner elbow and strokes it once or twice, like a worry stone. For courage, perhaps, because there’s one more little surge of movement and Caleb feels those soft lips against his temple.

“Good night, fancy man,” Fjord whispers in the dark.

“ _Your_ fancy man,” Caleb corrects with a chuckle quivering in his chest. “Get it right.”

Fjord snorts and rubs his arm again with his thumb. Soft, gentle strokes that shiver beneath Caleb’s skin. “I’ll do my best to remember.”

* * *

Within a handful of days, sharing the narrow bed has become second nature. Exhausted by the new surroundings and the unfamiliar schedule that governs the _Drensala Vis_ , Caleb sleeps through Fjord’s midnight shifts and early mornings, and spends his days doing odds and ends. Despite Captain Adella’s assurances that he bought his passage fair and square—with a canny eye toward Fjord’s far more tensile form—he still feels the urge to make himself useful.

His evenings are often spent in company. After the first few days, Adella and Doctor Atweel seem to relax their guard, and Caleb takes dinner with them more often than not. Nott prefers to take her meals with the crew, but sometimes Fjord will join them, entertaining the table with tales of his own voyages as a young man. He skirts certain… events in his history quite nimbly, but if the others notice they don’t bring it up.

Then they retire, usually together unless Fjord has an evening lookout shift. Caleb will read or copy spells, and Fjord busies himself with some menial task, like repairing rope or tending to his gear. Sometimes, when Nott accompanies them, they pass around her flask and grow quite silly until the late hour drags them off to bed, warm-blooded, limbs tangled together in a fog.

Sometimes, there are kisses. Fjord is careful to always bestow a humble peck to Caleb’s cheek when he joins them late at dinner, and afterward if he must makes his excuses before the instruments are pulled out for Adella and Doctor Atweel’s evening sessions. Caleb is careful to lean into his shadow whenever possible above decks, soliciting warm smiles and the familiar touch of a hand to his elbow or back.

They are careful in the privacy of their cabin, too. Careful to move around each other with just enough space to be appropriate. Careful to fold their hands together in the privacy of the coverlet when they trade goodnights. Careful to avert their eyes when the other changes, although that particular rule has grown lax of late.

“Caleb,” Fjord says one day as evidence of this, voice laced with shock.

“What?” Caleb turns in the middle of shaking out his trousers, trying to see what Fjord is looking at. All he can see are his own legs in their pokey grey socks, emerging from under the hem of his threadbare shirt. It turns out that salt isn’t the kindest to old clothing, and stuff that’s held up for years under his imprecise mending is beginning to show obvious signs of wear. He gives a nervous tug to the back of his shirt. “Something wrong?”

“You’ve got a blasted hole in your sock, can’t you feel it? Your entire heel’s almost out.” Fjord points, nearly accusatory, and Caleb feels a flare of mild irritation.

“Ja, well, socks are not meant to be pretty. It is still functional.”

“Not pretty, maybe, but they should at least be _comfortable_. You’re gonna rub your heel raw in your boots like that.” Fjord beckons. “Give it here and I’ll mend it.”

Caleb gives him a blank, disbelieving look. “I do not have any needle and thread. Nott ‘borrowed’ my sewing kit a while back and never returned it.”

“That’s all right,” Fjord says easily, “I’ve got my own.”

Which is how Caleb ends up sitting perched on the bed in nothing but his smalls and his half-unbuttoned shirt, watching Fjord carefully darn his much-abused sock. He’s been wearing his socks day in and day out without a pause for washing, so it must smell pretty ripe, but Fjord doesn’t seem to notice. He bows his head over it like it’s a fine bit of linen, working the frayed yarn back together with a thick, sturdy needle carved from bone. When he’s done he tosses it over and Caleb is reluctantly impressed.

“You have a steady hand, my friend,” he says, rubbing the new seam with his thumb. “I didn’t think…”

“What? My hands are big, so I must not be able to do delicate work?”

The question isn’t meant as an accusation, but Caleb still flushes with shame. “I’m sorry, that was unfair of me. It’s lovely work.” And because the words don’t feel like enough, Caleb rises from the bed and puts his hand on Fjord’s shoulder, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “ _Danke_ , Fjord.”

Fjord blinks up at him, baffled but smiling, and curls a hand around the back of Caleb’s thigh. It’s very nearly ticklish but not quite—just enough of a thrill that Caleb twitches and steps a bit closer ’til he’s standing between Fjord’s knees.

“More practice?” Fjord teases. His smile stutters and softens at the touch of Caleb’s thumb to his lower lip.

“You’ve been growing them out,” Caleb says gently. “Your teeth.”

Fjord’s mouth works quietly as he probes the inside with his tongue. “Yeah. Is it… all right?”

“Why are you asking _me_?”

“I mean… if we’re to keep up with this ruse, I… should maybe take a little more care.” A weak smile flits to life under Caleb’s touch. “Don’t want to send the in-laws running a panic.”

Caleb snorts and drops his hand. “The good news is, my friend, there _are_ no in-laws to placate.”

“I know that,” Fjord insists. “But if anyone on the ship thinks it strange…”

“Fjord.” He steadies himself with a hand to Fjord’s shoulder, trying to gather his thoughts. “This… this ruse, it’s all well and good, but if it makes you feel like you must alter who you are, it isn’t worth anything. I wouldn’t fall in love with a man whose only concern in life was to appeal to the eyes of strangers.”

Fjord looks up at him, eyes solemn, his mouth a softened curve. “ _You_ wouldn’t?”

It’s a testament to the power of Fjord’s hand on his thigh that he can’t immediately retrace his misstep. He blinks a moment, rewinding through the last few moments, and blushes when the slip presents itself. “Lord de Marco, I mean. Of course.”

“Of course,” Fjord echoes. There’s a smugness to his smile now, but it’s dispelled in the wake of his next question. “You like it, then? I should keep them?”

“I think you should do whatever you like,” Caleb says, “but yes. I… they suit you.” He rests the pad of his thumb against the slight bulge of Fjord’s lower lip. His mouth appears fuller, now, softer and more plush as it gives way to the hardness underneath. “It’s quite distinguished.”

“I always thought they were… I dunno. Boorish. Violent.” Fjord clacks his jaw, making a half-hearted snapping sound. “Grrr. I’m a vicious half-orc. Hear me roar.”

Caleb laughs in spite of himself and cups the side of Fjord’s face, gone a bit stubbly without a regular strop and razor. “Yes, you’re quite terrifying when you wish to be. But if you mean to say your teeth turn you into a terrifying monster, I’m sorry to say that’s just not true.” His thumb rests lightly against the smooth, paper-thin skin of his temple. “Your eyes are far too kind for that.”

A beat of quiet contemplation rests between them before Fjord’s eyes slip shut and he takes Caleb’s wrist in one hand. Caleb’s stomach drops, fearing he’s crossed some invisible line—and then Fjord kisses him: the crease of his life line, the ball of his thumb, the space between his first two fingers where ink stains perpetually bloom. Caleb’s heart pitter-patters in his chest and he slides his other hand into Fjord’s hair, feeling the shaggy grown-out bits and the longer, coarser strands on top made stiff with salt and sunshine.

Fjord places one more kiss to the beat of his rapidfire pulse in his wrist and lets him go. “Thank you, Caleb,” he says, voice gone a little bit rough around the edges. Caleb can relate.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers back.

“You did more than you know.” Fjord offers a crooked smile. “You’re a good man, Caleb Widogast.”

Denial rises sharply in his throat, but something… something holds it back. Maybe the fondness in Fjord’s eyes—maybe the heat still lingering in Caleb’s cheeks and the center of his palm like a live coal. He coughs a little and steps away. “I think it’s time for bed. Would you care to join me?”

“Always,” Fjord says, and stands, ignoring Caleb’s blatant change of topic. “I’ll just take a turn up on deck and be right down.”

 _Take a turn on deck_ , Caleb has learned, is Fjord’s code for “I have to take a piss but I don’t want to do it in the chamber pot right in front of you,” so he lets him go without a murmur. He takes the few minutes of solitude to stand in front of the open porthole and breathe in deep, gasping lungfuls of cool night air, steadying himself against the rush of emotion boiling in him.

By the time Fjord returns he’s in bed, blankets pulled conservatively to his chest and a single globule of light illuminating the cabin for Fjord’s benefit. Fjord’s shadow throws itself long and spindly against the bedspread, and then he climbs in after it, smelling heady and fresh as he curls up at Caleb’s side. There’s no question, now: one arm slings itself readily over Caleb’s chest and their knees knock and slide together under the covers. A quiet kiss is nestled like a secret to the edge of his hairline.

“Goodnight,” Fjord whispers. No qualifier—no _my love_ , no _Lord de Marco_. It’s somehow sweeter this way. Caleb shuts his eyes and lets the rhythm of the ship drag him down to slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ruse is taken a step too far... (or maybe just far enough).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content in this one, folks. All the love and appreciation to grey for the beta <3

The sharp morning whistle on deck rouses him before his usual hour. It takes him a moment, blinking into the cold, watery light, to realize it’s because he left the porthole open. His nose is a bit chilly but the rest of him is stiflingly warm, thanks to Fjord practically wrapped around him beneath the covers. Sweat dapples under his arms and between his thighs, and it would be uncomfortable if it weren’t for the gentle, whuffling snores being exhaled against his neck.

“Fjord,” he mumbles half-heartedly, because the whistle means Fjord should be up and at ’em, but he doesn’t want to lose his heat and closeness. He rolls his head against the pillow and plants his nose into the warm saltiness of Fjord’s hairline. His lips purse together of their own accord—a vague, formless kiss that bleeds into a whispered, “ _Fjord_. The bell…”

“Nngh.” Fjord’s grip tightens in his sleep, or half-sleep, and there’s a smear of drool against his shoulder where his shirt was pulled down in the night.

A little more awake now, Caleb huffs a laugh and cards his hand through Fjord’s hair. His blood beats sluggishly through his veins as wakefulness creeps up on him, and he realizes, somewhat detachedly, that he’s sporting a bit of morning wood. Nothing outrageous, just enough to simmer pleasantly in his belly—side effect of sharing a bed with a cuddler. Caleb’s eyes slide shut again and he squirms a bit, subconsciously chasing a bit of friction between his thighs.

The shift is enough to bring Fjord just a little closer, and Caleb’s eyes fly open as he feels the burning brand of Fjord’s cock against his hip. There’s no mistaking it—Fjord is in the same boat, possibly even moreso. After a perilous moment in which Caleb isn’t sure whether to press closer or pull away entirely, Fjord’s arm tightens and Caleb is given a full-on nuzzle against his throat. The tensile wire of arousal in his gut strings tighter.

“Fjord,” he chokes out again, because this is on the verge of being inappropriate, probably, or at the very least something they should discuss beforehand. Fjord snuffles again and cracks a yawn.

“Mm…?”

“The bell,” he wheezes. “You’re going to miss your shift.”

“Nrgh.” With a sigh, Fjord’s hold on him releases and he rolls away. Just an inch or two—just enough that the sizeable half-orc poker is removed from his thigh and he can think a little more clearly. He doesn’t dare move, waiting for Fjord’s embarrassment or censure. But instead Fjord just gets out of bed as if nothing is amiss, yawning and rubbing grit from his eyes.

Caleb pushes the blankets down around his waist and tries to pretend he’s not wide awake, pulse throbbing in his groin and every inch of skin craving Fjord’s return. Tries to pretend he’s not watching through half-lidded eyes as Fjord fishes his trousers from the floor and steps into them, giving his dick a little squeeze before conscientiously shifting it to his left pant leg and fastening the closure. Even in the dimness of early morning Caleb can still see the shape of it under his clothes. His mouth is suddenly very dry.

“Want me to close this?” Fjord asks suddenly, gesturing to the porthole.

“Er… no. Thank you,” Caleb whispers. He rolls onto his side a little, taking up some of the warm space that Fjord left behind. He wants to wallow in it, shove his nose into the sheets and breathe him in. His thighs slide stickily together under the blankets, still sweat-damp, and he swallows as Fjord finishes adjusting his belt and running a hand through his hair.

Despite the casual slope of his broad shoulders, there’s a tension humming through Fjord’s frame—it fills the room and plucks a warm, sizzling melody under Caleb’s skin. When Fjord approaches the bed, he’s not even surprised. His sturdy form blocks the light as he bends down and traces a strand of hair from Caleb’s sleep-creased cheek. “Try and go back to sleep,” he whispers, and withdraws.

Energy surges through Caleb as he walks away. His body moves before his mind can corral it, propping himself up on his elbows and calling out, “Fjord!”

Fjord stops with a hand to the latch and looks over his shoulder, a question written in his brow. But Caleb’s momentary courage fails him, and he says nothing, just looks across the narrow room and hopes that Fjord can somehow read his mind.

In tense, thrilling silence, Fjord paces back to the bed. There’s a hitch, a moment of hesitation, and then he leans down, cups Caleb’s face in one hand, and kisses him. It’s not graceful or shallow or _pretty_ , but sleep-sour, slick with the curious press of his tongue. Caleb feels the slight scrape of teeth against his bottom lip and makes an involuntary whimper when Fjord recedes.

“Sleep,” Fjord whispers, smiling, a little bit breathless. Caleb’s heart slams recklessly against his sternum as though try to leap past flesh and bone to meet Fjord halfway.

Then Fjord drops his hand and turns and leaves the room with a soft _click_ of the metal latch. Caleb is alone. And his blood is running hot beneath his skin.

He flops back onto the mattress with a heaving chest, thrashing away the covers. Thank god he’s given up wearing breeches to bed—getting a hand around himself is as easy as shoving his smallclothes out of the way. He spares a moment to hope Nott won’t pay him a visit anytime soon, and turns onto his stomach, teeth sinking straight into the pillow. It feels a little outrageous to scream, but he can’t help his little cries as he humps the mattress and his own hand, smearing his desire all over the sheets. His wrist turns, thumb and fingers meeting around his girth, and he sobs into the bedding as he thinks of Fjord standing on the other side of the door, listening.

He’s probably gone. He must be. But that little fantasy is an insistent coil of heat that can’t be shaken. It grips him through the first glorious pangs of orgasm and doesn’t let him go until he’s spilled himself dry, gasping for air, gagging a little with his face buried in the pillow so as not to make a sound.

Stillness grips him in the aftermath. He lays on his belly, limbs splayed in all directions, and just breathes. Whatever scent Fjord had left behind has been erased by his own, to his feeble human nose, but he fancies he can still feel Fjord’s heat, the memory of closeness bleeding through fabric and stuffing to mark him as its own. With a soft, reluctant groan, he pushes up onto his hands and knees and surveys the damage. The sheet is smeared with his seed and it sticks in the wiry hair along his thighs and lower belly. His fingers twitch toward prestidigitation and pause.

Will Fjord know, if he does this? Erases all the evidence? Does he _want_ Fjord to know?

After a moment of indecision he completes the gesture and the required incantation. His skin is immediately smooth and clean, and the sheets, while a bit rumpled, no longer smell of sex. He sighs and dabs at the sheen of sweat clinging to his chest with his sleeve. Fjord had told him to sleep, but his entire body feels tingly and awake, so he climbs out of bed and goes to the writing desk to clear his mind with spellwork.

* * *

The day crawls by. Caleb tries to focus on more intellectual pursuits, but his eyes keep sliding off the page and the spells he copies turn to rubbish under his idle hands. Rather than waste any more expensive materials with his distraction, he trades his coat for his sturdy, work-worn jerkin and goes above to lend his menial labor wherever it will be welcome.

He begins at the gundeck, since that’s where Nott is. She chirps a distracted greeting at him and continues with her work, and after a few minutes Caleb ascertains that she’s doing just fine without him. He wanders back up on deck, a little forlorn and a little anxious—he doesn’t want to run into Fjord right now, for reasons he can’t fully explain. The _Drensala Vis_ isn’t that big of a ship, though, and he knows that lingering above while Fjord is on duty is just tempting fate.

Luckily the bosun catches wind of his loose ends and directs him to a small gang of sailors doing some upkeep with the sails, and so Caleb is able to channel his distraction into handiwork. It works for as long as it takes for him to catch sight of Fjord through the rigging, a little higher up, and then the first swoop of vertigo sinks its claws into his guts and he becomes paralyzed.

“M’lord?” ventures the sailor next to him. “Y’all right?”

“Fine,” Caleb says, a touch weakly. “I think the height is getting to me.”

She peers down to the deck below, hardly more than ten feet. “Would you like some help getting down?”

“No, I’ll be all right.” He reaches out to Frumpkin, who’s busy stalking a mouse in the cargo hold. His cat flicks his ears at him and says _not now_. So much for that. “I’ll just see if they need anything down on deck.”

She bids him a dubious farewell, and he can feel her concerned gaze on him as he begins the perilous descent. He doesn’t recall the climb being this foreboding—something about retracing his steps blindly feels like standing at the edge of a vast cliff with no bottom in sight. He swallows and grips the rigging harder, suddenly overcome with fear.

 _It’s only a few more feet. Just put your foot down._ But he can’t. The ship dips low before cresting the next wave and his stomach follows a few seconds behind as the masts sway in response.

“Hey.”

He startles, fingers turned to calcified bone around the thick, coarse rope, and breathes an embarrassing little sound of relief at the sight of Fjord just a few feet away. “Fancy meeting you here,” he tries, and is proud that his voice only shakes a little bit.

“Not a fan of heights, eh?” Fjord says kindly.

“Apparently not. I was… unaware of that until this exact moment.”

“Not a bad way to find out. You’re not so far from the ground.” He passes Caleb on the rigging and puts a warm hand to the small of his back, unconcerned with the sway and pitch of the ship. “Take it slow. I’m right behind you.”

Relief and affection melt into a hot pool of emotion in his belly, like chocolate softening under a warm and kindly sun, and Caleb finds that he can move his feet again. One step at a time, excruciatingly slow, until his toes finally meet damp wood and Fjord can swing him to the deck with an arm around his waist like a pretty girl at a dance.

“There,” Fjord says, still hanging off the ropes like the salty dog he is. He reaches out and ruffles Caleb’s wind-tossed hair. “Safe and sound.”

“Thank you,” Caleb says, or tries to say, but the words get stuck in his throat. Fjord tips him a wink and a smile and scurries back up into the rigging.

Caleb is so fucked.

* * *

“Do you dance, Lord de Marco?”

Caleb leans back in his chair and considers the question through the fine haze of whiskey permeating his senses. Tonight marks the halfway point of their voyage to Port Damali, and they’re celebrating with a tipple or three of Captain Adella’s finest. Across the way he watches Fjord tip his crystal glass back and swallow, and the bob of his throat draws the answer out of him, hypnotizing.

“Ja… in my youth, I learned. Why do you ask?”

Adella runs her fingers thoughtfully along the fretboard of her violin. “I was thinking… a waltz. Hark, my love, what do you say?”

Doctor Atweel has already fetched their cello from its case, and is busy applying rosin to their bow in quick, perfunctory lashes. “If Lord de Marco wishes it, I am amenable.”

Caleb nudges Fjord’s foot beneath the table with his own, liquor making him bold. “Will you dance with me, sailor?”

“I don’t know how,” Fjord admits. The whiskey has left a wet sheen on his bottom lip that Caleb longs to lick away. “Not the fancy kind, anyway. But I’ll try, if your heart is set on it.”

Adella plucks the strings of her violin, tipping her head side to side as she coaxes it into tune, and Fjord rises to help Caleb from his chair. Caleb’s hands in his are tender with all his ropework earlier that day—but Fjord is so, so gentle, and the breadth of his chest is a welcome resting place for Caleb’s cheek.

The music is sedentary, deliberate. Nothing so fast-paced as a tarantelle, or as complicated as a traditional Zemnian line dance. Caleb would dare to call it easy to follow, except that he is a little too tipsy to lead and Fjord can do little more than shuffle side to side, breathing warm laughter into his hair. Adella and the Doctor fall away from the room in his mind, and they are left suspended together in perfect intimacy, the beat of Fjord’s heart a solid, steady metronome beneath his cheek.

A kiss is pressed to the crown of his head and Caleb lets out a small mewl of contentment. The music has come to a stop.

“Well,” says Fjord, a little rough in the back of his throat, “thank you for the music, Captain, but I think we’ll be retiring now.”

“Probably for the best,” comes Adella’s voice, thick with amusement.

“A moment!” Doctor Atweel says suddenly, even as Fjord begins to lead Caleb to the door. They rise from the table and move to the locked cabinet built into the wall, their tail looping behind them like a counterweight. “A gift for you, Lord de Marco.”

Caleb leans a little harder into Fjord’s heat and watches as Doctor Atweel produces an unopened bottle from the cabinet. The label looks foreign—Marquesian, perhaps?—and he’s not entirely sure what sort of liquor it is, but he knows it’s expensive. “I can’t accept this,” he says immediately, even as his fingers find the ornately carved cork nestled in its wax seal.

“Nonsense. It’s only a small thing.” Doctor Atweel nods, satisfied, and retakes their seat. “Take it. Regift it if you must to smooth the way in Port Damali.”

“Thank you,” Caleb says, humbled. “The gesture is much appreciated, Doctor.”

He takes the bottle when they depart, his other hand lingering familiarly at the crook of Fjord’s elbow. It has an impressive weight to it, and he squints at the label in the dimness as they make their way to their cabin.

“You’re gonna have to hide that from Nott,” Fjord warns. His voice is low and crackly against Caleb’s ear and he shivers a little, grip tightening around the bottleneck.

“She has her own flask.”

“And I’m sure whatever’s in it has nothing on that. A princely gift.” They pause at the door while Caleb fumbles with the lock and Fjord takes the opportunity to slip his hand under the tails of Caleb’s tunic, making him startle. “Fit for a prince,” Fjord whispers.

“You’re a flirt,” Caleb accuses, but takes his time with the key. He can feel Fjord’s hot breath recede from the back of his neck and tilts his jaw. “Well?”

“Well what?” Fjord says, nonplussed.

“I’m waiting for my _princely gift_.”

Fjord buries his laughter in Caleb’s collar just in time for the key to find the lock and turn, and when Caleb stumbles into the room, Fjord stumbles after him. The door swings shut and Caleb backs against the wall, giggling as Fjord looms over him in the dark.

“My prince,” he murmurs, sugary-sweet. “Tell me how to serve you.”

“ _Fjord_.”

“What? You asked.” Fjord’s hand is at his waist, heavy and warm. The bottle clinks forlornly against the wall as Caleb tips his head back, back, exposing his throat—he can see the barest glint of gold in Fjord’s eyes, reflecting the pale stream of moonlight coming in from the far porthole. He’s not sure if it’s the whiskey or the giddy grip of Fjord’s touch that gives him the courage to do what he does next.

“Oh _gods_ ,” he moans, as loudly as he can. Fjord startles and smothers him with a hand over his mouth. Caleb nips his palm in response.

“What are you _doing_?” Fjord whispers.

“They’re expecting a show,” Caleb mumbles back through the bars of his thick, calloused fingers. His libido perks its head up and he lets it ride, lets it bubble hotly through his veins. “It only seems fair that we give them something good.”

“I’ll give _you_ something good,” Fjord mutters, and wedges his thigh between Caleb’s. It’s not enough to really sit on, but he brushes Caleb’s front a little—the heat sparks and begins to coalesce. _This is a really bad idea_ , says the last of Caleb’s good sense, and then it’s overwhelmed in the bassy undertow of Fjord deep, guttural groan.

“Fjord!” Caleb blurts, pitching it high to carry through the wall. He lets the bottle tap the wood again, like the thunk of a head being tipped back against the wall in supplication.

“Is this what you had in mind?” Fjord breathes. His enormous hands scoop themselves beneath Caleb’s thighs and suddenly Caleb’s entire center of gravity shifts as he’s boosted into the air, back to the wall. He drops the bottle in his shock, but the heavy glass was made for rough travel and it rolls harmlessly away under the writing desk. Fjord pauses, looking after it. “Erm…”

“It’s fine, leave it.” Caleb sinks his fingers into Fjord’s hair and tugs to bring his head back around. “Look at me when you fuck me against the wall, _schatz_.” That’s _definitely_ the whiskey talking.

Fjord chokes, and his teeth glint briefly in the moonlight before he buries his entire face into Caleb’s necktie to smother his laughter.

“What? Is that not what’s happening right now?” Caleb whispers before calling out, “Yes, gods, put your fingers in—”

“ _Caleb_ ,” Fjord hisses, scandalized. His grip is quivering a little, like Caleb is a touch too heavy for comfort—or perhaps it’s the quiet giggling suffusing his body with tremors. Then he clears his throat and growls, with a look on his face like he’s daring Caleb to one-up him, “You’re insatiable, little prince.”

Caleb exhales a strangled laugh as heat spikes through him like a blade that’s lain too long near the fire. His fingers knot themselves in Fjord’s shirt for stability and he prays, fruitlessly, that Fjord won’t notice his cock twitching to life in his trousers. It won’t be long now before Fjord gets an inkling of it. But instead of pulling back, Caleb murmurs, “Guilty as charged,” and enjoys the intake of breath against his cheek.

“I’m not very well-versed in this,” Fjord admits in a whisper, “but, ah, fuckin’ someone against the wall seems like a lot of work.”

“Having second thoughts, sailor?”

Fjord’s eyes gleam peculiarly—almost a smile. “No. But I’d rather have you in a bed, if that’s all right.”

Maybe it’s part of the farce, but the words are said low and quietly; no matter how thin the walls, there was no hope of their neighbors hearing it. Those words were all for Caleb. Heat crawls up beneath his collar and into his face, and he nods, unable to dredge up the words to say _yes, please_.

The nod is enough. Fjord boosts him a little higher into his arms and Caleb hooks his legs around his waist as best he can for the handful of steps to the bunk. If Fjord can feel Caleb’s arousal against his belly he says nothing about it—at least not out loud. With his face to the moonglow, his expression is laid bare for Caleb to read, and every last unspoken word rings like a heavy gong in the back of his mind. Fjord wants him. He’s sure of it. Not the little prince. Not Lord de Marco. _Him._

Fjord sits him gently on the mattress and crawls up to kneel over him, drawn in by Caleb’s fingers on his jaw. They kiss because it feels natural, feels right—there’s no farce to this. No pretension. His breath tastes like whiskey and under it, against the slick roughness of his tongue, burnt honey and sage. Caleb lets himself moan and is rewarded: a hand on his thigh, the other cradling the back of his neck like it’s something precious. Fjord moans too, deep in his throat. Quiet enough not to carry, but loud enough to reverberate in Caleb’s bones. Caleb squirms and chases that sound, licking at his inner lip, his tongue, the rough new edges of Fjord’s growing tusks. He tastes blood and pulls away.

“Sorry,” Fjord whispers, half-covering his mouth with one hand. “My tongue’s a little sore, I’m not used to them yet.”

“It’s all right.” Caleb quivers and tries to breathe evenly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No! No, not at all.” Fjord leans in hesitantly and Caleb meets him halfway.

They kiss shallowly and loud, and Caleb relishes the echoing smack of saliva, the suck of his lower lip into Fjord’s hot mouth. Fjord seems to grow looser as time ticks on—his hand roams Caleb’s thigh, the other tucked flat against the mattress for support, and he hums quietly, steadily in his chest, openly enjoying the contact. All attempts at pageantry have dissolved in the heat they share, and Caleb, for one, is not about to break the spell.

Then Fjord’s hand hooks behind his knee as if to prop his thigh up, and pauses. “Why are you still wearing your boots?”

“I—what?”

“Your _boots_ , Caleb. Honestly. Some noble lord you are.”

Caleb watches incredulously as Fjord dismounts from bed and finds the clasp on Caleb’s boot. “I’m—sorry?” he tries,the vague lucidity encroaching through his tipsy haze leaving him unsure whether Fjord is truly offended. Fjord flashes him a quick look, a private smile, and the worry in his chest dissolves. He tips his chin up, smug. “You know I’m accustomed to having other people do such menial tasks for me, Fjord.”

Fjord scoffs, but his hands grow slow and deliberate, easing the well-traveled leather down his calf before setting the boot on the floor. “What lovely socks you have,” he teases. His fingers cup the back of Caleb’s ankle tenderly, like it belongs to a prince and not a bone-ragged wizard constantly on the cusp of poverty.

“A very sweet man keeps them in good condition for me,” Caleb whispers. He’s not sure why he’s blushing.

“I’d better take them off, then, so we don’t worry the seams any more than necessary.” With delicate precision, Fjord removes the other boot and then both socks. He runs his fingers lightly along the bare skin afterward until Caleb’s toes curl, and finally tucks his legs back up onto the mattress. “There. Much better.”

He removes his own footwear with a great deal less finesse and climbs back into bed. Caleb’s desire hasn’t waned at all in the last few minutes—in fact, it feels as though it’s grown, in a very literal sense, straining the front of his breeches obscenely. The room is still very dark, but he knows that Fjord’s sharper eyes can likely see the state of him, and the thought of being so exposed is thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.

“Wait,” he says, when Fjord makes to lay against him. Fjord goes still.

“Caleb?”

“It’s all right. It’s…” He gulps. “It’s definitely all right. It’s just, I can’t see very much at all, and I would… like to. If that is… acceptable to you.”

There is a beat or two of silence that feel interminable. Caleb’s nails dig into his palms as he waits for the verdict, sure that he’s crossed an invisible line of propriety that the whiskey in his veins had smoothed away. But Fjord lets out a little huff of laughter and leans back. “Of course it’s _acceptable_. Would you like me to light a candle?”

Part of Caleb wants to say no and show off a little—it would be the work of a moment to light the candles on the writing desk from here—but he knows better than to tempt fate. Nothing good comes of playing with fire on a ship, for all that his aim isn't as impeded as it might be. “Please,” he says, and leans back against the pillow.

For a moment Fjord is nothing more than a dark, hulking shape in the shadowed room. Then there’s the hiss and pop of a match being struck, and a faint glow casts him into silhouette. He looks rumpled when he turns back, shirt collar askew, hair tugged into loops and whorls by Caleb’s greedy fingers. Caleb can’t make out the details, but he can see Fjord’s smile, lopsided and familiar, and when Caleb sits up and reaches for him there is no hesitation.

“This ain’t really about causin’ a scene anymore, is it?” Fjord whispers, kneeling up on the bed. He cups his hands around Caleb’s cheeks and thumbs the silky hair at his temples. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I’m sorry,” Caleb says, not quite wincing. He’s blushing so hotly now he’s sure that Fjord can feel it against his palms. “We may have the alcohol to thank for that plan.”

“Shh, don’t apologize.” Fjord huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s real nice, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Well… this.” A kiss is pressed to his forehead. Caleb hums and leans into it. “It’s nice to feel wanted.”

Caleb laughs, but it’s thin and unconvincing. “I find it hard to believe you’re unfamiliar with that sensation.”

Fjord peers down at him with confusion written in his rumpled brow. “I don’t understand.”

“You are a very handsome man, Fjord. Surely you know that.”

“I… don’t. I mean, that’s very kind of you to say, Caleb—”

Caleb squeezes Fjord’s hand and sits up a little so he’s eye to eye with him. “Do you really not see it? Have you really never looked in a mirror?”

“I try not to.”

The flat tone of voice strikes Caleb hard in the stomach and he tries not to flinch. Right. Fjord’s childhood is still little more than a patchwork quilt in his mind’s eye, pieced together in hastily stolen scraps, but it’s a cold and unkind picture when held up to the light. “Perhaps this is unwelcome,” he warns, drawing the words together like beads on a leather cord, “but I find you quite… appealing. If that’s not strange to say.”

“Naw, not strange. Strange to hear, maybe.” The brittle tone is softer now, and Fjord’s thumb strokes the inner edge of Caleb’s knee, sending little thrills of sensation crawling up his thigh. “But I’m happy you think so. Would feel a bit odd, otherwise.”

“Feel a bit odd about what?” Caleb whispers.

“Bein’ engaged to a lord and all.” Fjord leans forward to rest their temples together. “Especially one so fine-lookin’ as you.”

Caleb’s throat closes up and it takes a swallow or two to clear it. “You don’t have to flatter me, you know. You’ve already got me in your bed.”

“Hmmm. So I have.” The broken hook of Fjord’s nose nuzzles against his hairline and he rumbles deep in his chest, a low, satisfied sound like a cat starting to purr. “Mmm, Lord de Marco…”

Laughter stirs in Caleb’s chest at his mocking tone, softened by the sweet, uncertain edge of his smile. Emboldened, he grips Fjord by the front of his shirt and drags him down to the bed. Fjord comes laughing, hitching his arms around Caleb’s waist and nuzzling at the side of his neck. Even through breechcloth and leggings, Fjord is warm and solid, and his eyes when Caleb meets them are heavy-lidded, the pupils widened to dark pools like onyx stones set with amber.

“How drunk are you, really?” he whispers, strangely breathless.

Caleb licks his lips and tastes Fjord, and burnt sugar, and nothing else. “Not so much,” he admits. “Not anymore.”

Fjord’s eyes glint golden-warm in the dim light. “Good.” He leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, the curve of his cheek. “This morning,” he says against Caleb’s jaw, “I could smell you. When I woke up. You wanted me.”

Caleb’s breath catches in his throat. “ _Ja_. I did.”

“I can smell it now.” Fjord tucks his face against the side of Caleb’s neck and breathes deeply, exhales in a hot rush. “On you, and on the sheets…”

“I—I cleaned up after myself,” Caleb rushes to say, though every inch of his skin feels aflame with want. “But I…”

“Tell me,” Fjord murmurs. He kisses Caleb’s jugular, the rapid flutter of his carotid artery. “Did you touch yourself after I left?”

Caleb squeezes his eyes shut and whines at the scrape of teeth against his tender throat. “ _Ja_.”

“Did you make yourself cum?”

“Fuck,” Caleb spits. “ _Ja_ , yes, I did—and I thought of you while I did it.”

Fjord growls against his neck and rolls over him, slotting between Caleb’s thighs like he was made to fit there. Breath coming quick and desperate in his chest, Caleb reaches for him, groping clumsily at his shirtsleeves. “Easy,” Fjord soothes. “Take your time, little prince.”

“Fjord, _please_.” Caleb digs his heels into the mattress and squirms against Fjord’s careful weight. He’s still holding himself up, and that bare half-inch between their bodies is driving him slowly insane. “I want to feel you, Fjord. Please. _Please_.”

He doesn’t know what it is about this that’s so intoxicating. The traces of whiskey in him, perhaps, or the warm weight and bulk of Fjord suspended over him, the damp left behind by his mouth on Caleb’s neck. He wants to feel that weight uninterrupted. He wants to be shoved into the mattress until he can barely breathe, wants Fjord to put his teeth to him so he can wear the marks like a badge of pride.

But he doesn’t know how to say any of it, so instead he slips his hand beneath the hem of Fjord’s shirt and breathes, “Is it all right if I touch you? Under your clothes?”

Fjord hesitates. Just for a split second. Without waiting for verbal confirmation, Caleb takes his hands away from bare skin and squeezes his arms where they bracket either side of his ribs. “I mean,” Fjord stammers, as if he’d said something to begin with, “you can—you can touch, I don’t mind.”

“Wanting is different from not minding,” Caleb whispers. “Kiss me again?”

The smile that breaks across Fjord’s face tells a thousand stories—relief, desire, fondness, buried grief. Together they rise like the pale light of an early morning sun and are poured out in the kiss Fjord presses to his lips. Caleb moans and arches toward him, aching for contact, and finally, _finally_ Fjord’s weight eases down to meet him.

“Oh, gods.” Caleb’s chest heaves for breath as he sinks his fingers into Fjord’s thick, wild hair. He hooks one leg around Fjord’s waist and groans at the unmistakable heat, the eager twitch of Fjord’s hips against his. “Fjord…”

Fjord mumbles something unintelligible against his neck, where he’s worrying the thin skin gently between his teeth. His soft, broad tongue soothes the spot afterward, but the poignant ache remains. “Good?” he whispers.

“Very much so.” Caleb’s throat clicks when he swallows. He wants to tell Fjord how hard he is, how much he aches for touch, for kindness, but it withers away on his tongue.

“I’ve never really… done this,” Fjord admits. His hand slides along Caleb’s thigh, thumbing the crease of his knee and then up, following the seam to where his hip is coiled like a spring ready for the kickback. Caleb scrambles to collect his scattered thoughts, to frame them in something approaching coherence.

“What, pretend to be engaged to a man pretending to be practically royalty?”

“No—well, yes. That too.” He teases the waistband of Caleb’s breeches where, by some miracle, his shirt is still tucked. At Caleb’s murmured encouragement he tugs the fabric up and away, exposing his belly and chest. The flare of breath in his lungs is met with a hand to his diaphragm and the pendant lying there beneath his clothes. Fjord’s eyes glint with unspoken curiosity.

“Keep it on,” Caleb whispers. “Everything else can go.”

“Right.” With tender care, Fjord tugs his shirt over his head and bends to lick to his collarbones, the hollow of his sternum. Caleb whines and tugs his hair in encouragement. “You let me know if I do somethin’ you don’t like, yeah?”

“I will.” Caleb struggles to breathe evenly as Fjord’s mouth ghosts over his chest to rub curious lips against the pucker of a nipple. “And you… you will do the same, _ja_?”

“Deal.” Fjord grins and kisses him. The heat and softness of his mouth is almost a distraction from the rest of it. _Almost_. There’s no distraction in the world that could keep Caleb from feeling the distinct shape of Fjord’s erection in his leggings, brushing innocuously against his inner thigh. Caleb can feel himself straining the placket of his breeches in answer, even with his legs spread to accommodate it—arousal thuds heavily in his groin and behind his temples, and he can’t help the little cry that emerges as Fjord nibbles the base of his throat.

“More of that please, Fjord,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” Fjord’s eyes glint darkly, framed by a spook of dark, silver-streaked hair. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You won’t. I want you to mark me, Fjord. Please.”

“Well. Since you asked so nicely.”

Caleb’s head sinks back into the pillow as Fjord ravages his throat. He can smell him: salt and smoke and the stiff, briny smell of the sea. He can hear him, hear the wet of his mouth, the low, rumbling sounds in his chest. He can _feel_ him—his teeth, the new tusks still round and buffed at their edges, the scrape of his tongue. He squirms and swears in Zemnian as Fjord paints lurid shades along the column of his neck, blotches of color like paint smeared haphazardly across a marble statue. A statue that comes to life with every kiss and sigh.

“ _Fick mich_ ,” Caleb begs, and grips the tattered cuffs of Fjord’s sleeves for dear life. “Fjord, _bitte_ —”

“You know I don’t understand what you’re sayin’, sweetheart,” Fjord murmurs, smiling. His hand would say otherwise—braced on one elbow, he massages Caleb’s inner thigh, high along the inner seam where his desire shows plainly through the fabric. Caleb whines.

“Don’t play stupid. You know perfectly well what I want… _ah_.”

“This?” Fjord muses as he boldly cups the front of Caleb’s breeches. Caleb stiffens and tries not to buck into the pressure of his hand. Fjord tuts at him even as he rubs his palm there, up and down, achingly slow. “Is this the way you want it, m’lord?”

Caleb shudders, caught between laughter and arousal. “Fjord, for fuck’s sake, it’s just—it’s _me_.”

“Shh. I know.” Fjord’s playful expression transforms and he leans down to kiss him. It’s shallow at first, but Caleb is beyond such reservations. He takes hold of Fjord’s nape and pulls him closer, kissing him sloppy and askew—but he captures Fjord’s heady gasp against the roof of his mouth and holds it there, sweet, and it’s perfect all the same.

The fantasy of play-pretend dissolves as he presses his hands to Fjord’s shoulders and holds him still to rub their open mouths together. Tongue to tongue, until Caleb breaches his slack lips and licks curiously at the nubs of bone just starting to grow from Fjord’s jaw.

“Cay,” Fjord murmurs, pulling away. “You—”

“Bad?”

“I—no. As long as you like it.”

Caleb flushes. “I do.”

“Hmm…” Eyes gleaming with wonder and banked curiosity, Fjord leans in and kisses him square and full. In the quiet room, their mouths meet soft and pull apart wet, making slick, rhythmic noises that crawl heated fingers up Caleb’s spine. He shivers and squirms as Fjord sucks on his tongue, and the bulge in his trousers nudges a little into Fjord’s hand. Fjord breaks, fingers twitching. “Can I…”

“Please,” Caleb breathes—and breathes, and breathes, so hot and full in the center of his chest that each inflation of his lungs feels too shallow.

Fjord nuzzles affectionately against the stubble on Caleb’s jaw as he plucks one-handed at the fastenings on his breeches. The buttons give way readily, and Caleb lets out a soft cry and digs his fingers into Fjord’s bicep at the touch of his hand through his smalls. “Yes… like… _Fjord_ —”

Fjord rumbles his approval and reaches inside thin, sweat-damp cotton to take hold of his erection. It’s just this side of overwhelming. Caleb isn’t in the habit of looking after himself regularly—hazards of traveling with a pack of nosy, cheerful assholes who don’t understand the meaning of personal space. Fjord’s grip on him, even through his clothes, feels like being struck by lightning. Every hair stands on end, and his heart slams frantically inside his chest like it’s begging for escape.

“Fjord,” he whimpers, and there must be something in his voice, because Fjord takes his hand away, uncertain. It’s sweet, but it’s not what he wants. “Sit up,” he orders breathlessly. “Let me—”

Fjord is very good at following directions. With his eyes gone dark and hungry, he kneels back and sits with his back to the wall, legs hanging off the bed a little. “Like this?”

“ _Ja_ , just like.” Leaving his breeches open and his smalls loose on his hips, Caleb swings astride his lap and seals their mouths together.

This is much, much nicer. After a moment of uncertainty, Fjord’s big hands find Caleb’s hips and Caleb’s cock finds Fjord’s, standing proudly to attention in his leggings. Part of him wants to find the laces and tug them free, see this stretch of unexplored frontier for himself—but the bigger, more insistent part wants to sit on Fjord’s cock and have his way with it, just like this. Caleb’s trembling hands alight to either side of Fjord’s neck, an anchor point for his kiss as he rubs off against Fjord’s soft stomach. The thick weight of him props up easily between Caleb’s thighs. Hot and hard and impossible to ignore. Even through their clothes, Caleb can feel how nicely he fits in the groove of his perineum—he wants to sit on it for real. Wants it in his mouth.

“What?” Fjord mumbles, blurred against his swollen lips. Heat crawls up Caleb’s face in force—had he really said that out loud? _In for a penny, in for a pound._

“I said,” he gasps, “I want to sit on your cock.”

Fjord blinks at him in perfect stillness. Then there’s a quiver, an instinctive tectonic shift that runs through him, and Fjord shoves his hands down the back of Caleb’s breeches. Caleb squawks, unbalanced, and grabs at Fjord’s shoulders, smothering giggles into his sweet salt-and-pepper hair.

“I don’t—I don’t think I can, right now,” Caleb stammers out as his arse is bared to the open room. Giddy laughter still wells up, wanting to escape, but he stuffs it back and leans in to smother Fjord’s pout with kisses. “Soon,” he promises, easing down until Fjord’s cock bumps against his bare arse. He reaches back behind, fumbling—laces are pulled free, and hot, silky skin greets his palm, slick at the tip with moisture. Fjord’s head slams back against the wall and his chest heaves under Caleb’s weight.

“Caleb,” he chokes, reaching up to smooth a strand of hair away from Caleb’s sweaty forehead. “You’re enough. Just like this. You’re beautiful.”

Conflict rises in Caleb’s chest, tangled and thorny, but he does his best to smooth it out—leans down to kiss Fjord, sweet at first then tinged with heat, until their tongues slide together and his hand is a cupped fist around the head of Fjord’s cock. There’s a moment of fumbling, and then Fjord’s hand is between Caleb’s legs, working him through his half-removed breeches. Caleb whines and shoves his face into the damp crook of Fjord’s neck.

There is no grace to this. Just a hot, quick grind, clothes growing heavy with sweat, the occasional teasing brush of Fjord’s cockhead to Caleb’s backside. He’s close, and closer—his teeth have sunken bluntly into Fjord’s collarbone to keep from crying out. He leans back and lets Fjord rut behind his bollocks, gripping his arms now with both hands to keep upright—

“Caleb,” Fjord breathes against his cheek. “Fuck—fuck, Caleb, come on—”

The encouragement slides like syrup down his throat, slams into his gut. Unexpected, a splash of molten metal that he isn’t equipped to deal with. Caleb cries out in Zemnian and shoves hard against Fjord’s belly, once, twice. Then spills inside his underthings, body curved and wracked with shudders as orgasm washes over him in waves. He’s barely coherent enough to hear the gentle murmurs in his ear, the quick slapping of skin. But he comes back to himself in time to see Fjord’s face twist in ecstasy and feel the hot seed spilled against his thighs and arse. Trembling, wicked with sweat, Caleb lets his knees give out and sinks fully into Fjord’s lap. The mess can wait a minute or two.

“Fuck,” Fjord sighs, head tipped back against the wall. His heavy hands move like cold molasses, rubbing Caleb’s back over his shirt, the back of his neck. Twining through his hair. Caleb makes a small, contented noise and kisses the slope of Fjord’s neck.

“That was,” he begins, and fails to follow through. He feels like a doll whose strings have been cut, leaning into Fjord because that’s all he can manage. Fjord hums and holds him close.

“Can’t… can’t say I was expectin’ that.”

Caleb’s belly tightens at the careful neutrality in his voice, and he forces himself to sit up a little, away. The movement has the unfortunate side effect of smearing Fjord’s spent cock stickily against his arse, and he bites his lip, hating himself for how good it feels. “Are you all right?” he asks quietly. He can’t bring himself to make eye contact, so he busies his hands with straightening Fjord’s shirt collar, trying to preserve whatever little modesty remains. Fjord’s hands cover his and he goes still.

“All right?” Fjord huffs a quiet laugh. “Caleb, that was… gods, more than I ever expected.” As if he can feel Caleb slipping through his fingers like sand, he reaches out and cups Caleb’s cheek in one rough palm, squeezing both of his twitching hands with the other. “It was amazing.”

“So you don’t regret it?” Caleb says bluntly. Hang it, he would rather know _now_ than have to fumble through another few weeks of miscommunication and awkwardness.

Fjord gapes at him a moment before seeming to take the question seriously. “No. No, I don’t regret it.” He traces his thumb beneath the weary arc of Caleb’s occipital bone, palm pressed to the coarseness of his beard. He seems to want to say more—but then his hand drops away and he shifts, coaxing Caleb off his lap. “You’re going to ruin your clothes if you sleep in them like that, you know. Here.”

Caleb watches, wrongfooted, as Fjord refastens his leggings and goes to fish his waterskin out of his pack. He wets a clean rag and passes it to Caleb, whose cheeks darken in a blush. “I… thank you, Fjord.”

“Of course. No point in sleeping uncomfortably.”

Fjord turns his back politely, and Caleb takes a few minutes to scrub himself clean of his own spend and Fjord’s. His smalls are ruined but his breeches were mostly spared, so he hangs them up to air out. When he turns back, Fjord is in his shirt and nothing else, perched on the edge of the bed and looking studiously at the floor, the light from the candles licking and settling into the dark whorls of his hair. Sentiment rises sharply in his chest. _Archheart help me, he’s beautiful._

With careful, premeditated steps, Caleb crosses the tiny bit of floorspace and stands between Fjord’s knees. Fjord glances up into his face, eyes catching on his nakedness partway up, and coughs.

“There’s hardly any point in modesty now, is there?” Caleb touches his knuckles beneath Fjord’s chin. “If you’re comfortable with that.”

“I—yeah. I’m comfortable.” Fjord’s crooked smile draws him in, as does the light touch of his fingertips to Caleb’s stomach. “You still want to bunk with me? After… all of that?”

“ _Ja_ , very much so.” Caleb leans down and noses into the prickle of Fjord’s hairline. Smiles when he feels Fjord’s palms smooth against his flanks. “The nature of our relationship may be a front for the crew and their Captain, Fjord, but that orgasm you gave me was not.”

Fjord squeezes his hips and mumbles laughter against Caleb’s collarbone. “Yeah, all right. Point taken.” Then, because he’s there, or perhaps because he’s feeling bolder before Caleb’s casual nudity, he sucks a gentle kiss to Caleb’s sternum, worrying the skin with lips and teeth until a faint purple-red bruise is left behind. Just to the side of the pendant that hangs around his neck at all times. Fjord touches the spot and his eyes are dark and hungry. “Come to bed?”

Caleb ducks his head and kisses him, smiling against his mouth. “Of course. Just let me get the light.”

He puts out the candles with a gesture and a gust cantrip, then turns back to bed. Though Fjord is far sturdier and stronger, he caves readily beneath the pressure of his hands, and Caleb crawls up after him to nestle at his side.

But despite his words, sleep feels far away. He fidgets with his amulet in the dark until Fjord puts a hand out to stop him. “Y’all right?”

Caleb forces himself to breathe evenly. “ _Ja_. I’m fine.”

“Really? Cause I can feel you twitchin’ and wrigglin’ around like a fish in a barrel. D’you need another wipedown or…”

“ _No_.” Caleb coughs, embarrassed. “I just. It’s a bit chilly in here, is all.”

Apparently giving up on getting a straight answer out of him, Fjord turns onto his side and drapes his arm over Caleb’s bare chest. With a desperation he’s embarrassed to admit, Caleb turns to meet him, snuggling close to his chest, hands folded like a supplicant between them.

“You’re a cuddler,” Fjord murmurs with delight.

“Yeah, but only after a good fuck,” Caleb says. Fjord just laughs.

“I’m flattered.” He pulls Caleb a little closer and kisses the top of his head. “You prefer it any particular way? Just for future reference.”

Caleb narrows his eyes at him in the dark, to little effect. “How do you mean?”

Fjord’s hand is warm between his shoulder blades, melting into him like heated chocolate. “Just wonderin’ if you prefer to give or, ah, receive.”

Caleb sputters and buries his face fully into Fjord’s chest. “You’re insufferable. And I don’t have a proper answer. I haven’t, ah, tried enough of either to have a preference.” He waits a moment or two. “Yourself?”

Fjord hums thoughtfully. “Like I said, I’ve… not really done this. But, erm. Receiving seems to be… intriguing.”

“That is good to know.” Caleb muffles a yawn and, on its heels, gives voice to the question sitting heavy in the back of his mind. “What are we doing here, Fjord?”

Fjord breathes a quiet sigh. “Seems like we’re in bed together.”

“ _Ja_ , that is true. But I mean… in general.” Caleb swallows. “You did not have to fuck me tonight, Fjord. We weren’t being watched. We played our parts correctly at dinner.”

“Do you wish we hadn’t?”

Caleb licks his lips. “That’s not what I said.”

“Caleb.” There’s a bit of sternness to his voice that twigs something in the back of Caleb’s head. “If you want an honest answer out of me, you’re gonna have to give me something to go on.”

“I don’t wish we hadn’t,” Caleb says after a small, shameful eternity. “You were right, earlier—it’s nice to feel wanted. I don’t expect anything out of this arrangement in particular, but I won’t say no to… having a little bit of fun, while we can.”

It’s a terribly clinical answer, but Fjord seems satisfied. He doesn’t press Caleb any further on his personal feelings, nor does he offer any of his own—but it’s difficult for Caleb to feel bereft like this, his head on Fjord’s chest, Fjord’s sleepy, rumbling murmurs in his ears. He falls asleep cocooned in blankets and strong arms, and the dreams he has that night are of fields of flowers, and a wide, glittering sky filled with stars.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here there be pirates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sO SORRY this has taken me so long to update. I'm ashamed. I hope this (and the next) chapter make up for it. Unbeta'ed but all my love as usual to grey, and everyone who has taken the time to comment! <3
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains what I would consider canon-typical violence, but the gore isn't like... gratuitous.

“Ho there, sailor. Looking for work?”

Caleb stars with surprise and turns to face Captain Adella, one hand to the ship’s rail to steady himself. She’s lacking her usual tricorner but still wears the long, dramatic coat, and she’s got an astrolabe dangling from a sturdy leather strap at her hip. She flashes white teeth at him and he smiles back hesitantly.

“I am, in fact. If you have anything that needs doing I’d be happy to do it. I’m growing a bit restless, but I don’t want to overstep my bounds…”

“I knew you’d get bored of your books eventually,” Adella says with a knowing curl to her lip. “You’ve got that look about you of a man used to hard work. It’s not an insult!” She claps him heartily on the shoulder and he tries not to stagger. “I appreciate that quality in a man, especially one of the noble variety. No offense.”

“Er. None taken.”

“Good. Well I’ve just taken our heading, but if you’d like I can show you how to use an astrolabe.”

Caleb smiles politely. “Thank you for the offer, but I can always find north.”

Adella blinks at him. “Sorry?”

“It’s just something I’ve always been able to do. I have a very good memory—I can recollect everything I’ve read or seen with perfect clarity for at least a month, and I always know where north is.”

“Well that might come in handy, I’m very glad to know that.” Equal parts impressed and incredulous, Adella makes a show of tucking her instrument away and casting about the deck. “I believe it’s nearly time for a change of shift, if you’d care to shimmy up and be our lookout for a few hours.” She gestures to the mainmast and Caleb’s head cranes back, looking up, up to the highest point of the ship. The billowing sails hide the crow’s nest from full view, but he still gets dizzy looking for it.

“I cannot say I’m very fond of heights,” he admits, tearing his eyes away before the vertigo can sink its claws into him. “Perhaps something a little closer to sea level?”

“Very well,” Adella allows, though she looks disappointed. “We’ll have to get you up in the rigging one of these days, milord de Marco—it’s a beautiful view.”

“Perhaps,” Caleb says. “I warn you it will take a lot of convincing.”

“Well, I won’t force you. Come, how would you like to have a hand at steering the ship?”

Against his better judgement, a tiny thrill of boyish glee uncurls in his chest. “Can I?”

Adella laughs. “Of course! If your sense of direction is so absolute I have nothing to worry about, do I?” She gestures for him to follow her and turns, coat whipping behind her, to make her way to the poop deck. Caleb tries not to smile too widely as he follows.

The navigator tugs his forelock in obeisance when they approach and hands the wheel over readily enough, clearly eager for a break. Adella spends a minute or two explaining the mechanics and then simply leans on the rail, scanning the deck with a watchful eye and passing him the occasional critique. Caleb’s fingers wrap easily around the spokes and he puffs out his chest a little. The rush of wind through his teeth is intoxicating, as is the idea that this entire vessel—suddenly much larger spread out before him like this—is at _his_ command.

“It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?” Adella says, one eye on the horizon and one on him.

“I feel like a little boy again,” he admits. “Why don’t you do this more often?”

“What, steering? It’s a bit monotonous after awhile. And it’s strictly supposed to be the navigator’s job. I’m the one who gives the heading, they execute.” She folds her arms over her chest and peers out across the deep, undulating blue. “It’s a different sort of life, being in charge of something. I thought I would give you a little taste of it, before reality sets in.”

Caleb grapples silently with that statement before the realization kicks in. Sometimes he forgets that there’s more to his poorly-woven tall tale than his relationship with Fjord. “I’m not quite sure what to expect,” he says quietly beneath the sigh of the wind passing through the rigging. “When I show up at my family’s doorstep, that is.”

“What to expect from them? Or from yourself?”

“Either. Both.” He scrapes out a dry laugh like a ladle against the bottom of a dwindling water barrel. “I hope they will be pleased to see me, but I’m sure I will have to oust one or more siblings from the comfortable grooves they have worn themselves. My mother, I hope, will be… pleased to see me. We were close, once.”

“Hmm.” Adella isn’t looking at him, but her attention is unmistakably bent upon him, her fingers tapping thoughtfully against the sleeve of her coat. “You know, I always meant to ask. The accent. It’s not of the Menagerie Coast, is it?”

Caleb’s stomach drops. “Ah… no. It is Zemnian.”

“That’s curious. Very far afield from Port Damali.”

“Ja, it is.” His palms are sweating faintly against the wooden spokes, and he grips them a little more firmly to make up the difference. “When we fled, I adopted it to keep a low profile. A nanny I had as a child was from the Zemni Fields, and so it came… fairly easily to me. I still remember a little of the language, though I am far from fluent. I suppose I am just in the habit of it now.”

There is a long pause. Long enough that Caleb’s mouth runs dry and he’s unable to work up enough spit to moisten it, and he thinks that if he must speak again any time soon, the fragile croaking will inevitably give him away. But Adella only nods, thoughtful, and gives him back into the care of the navigator to pursue her other duties. “If you run out of things to do,” she adds, halfway through the doors to her suite, “Doctor Atweel may benefit from an extra pair of hands in the surgery. Nothing too exciting, but if you’ve a head for organization and sorting…”

“I do,” Caleb says, and his voice sounds almost normal. “Thank you.”

He mans the wheel for a little while longer after she’s gone. The navigator, a wiry half-elf with greying hair and a crooked chin, isn’t very talkative, which suits Caleb fine, and he spends half an hour or so at the helm, trying not to look for Fjord. He’s mostly successful. Whatever Fjord is doing keeps him more toward the prow of the ship, and Caleb only catches flashes of green and the occasional boom of Fjord’s deep, melodic laughter carrying like a bell across the deck.

Then, from up in the crow’s nest, a call comes down that takes Caleb a moment to fully understand: “SAIL! Sail, off our starboard bow!”

Like a switch has been flipped, the level of activity on deck kicks up a few notches. Caleb turns to look and the navigator is suddenly there, stern-faced, waving him on. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Aye, aye,” Caleb says and goes quickly to the rail to see for himself.

For a long minute or two he can’t make anything out—just the endless blue of the sea stretching toward the pale horizon, sea and sky becoming one in the far foggy distance. Then he sees it: a tiny white smear against the hazy blue. Another ship. At first it’s impossible to tell whether it’s heading their way or just keeping pace, but as the minutes stretch out into a quarter of an hour, the white blob grows until it’s distinguishable to his layman’s eyes as a ship under full sail.

As if summoned by his unspoken questions, Doctor Atweel materializes at his side and lays a hand against the rail, squinting out with narrowed grey eyes. “They’re moving to intercept us.”

“Is this not a common trade route?” Caleb ventures hesitantly. “Surely ships pass one another on occasion?”

“From that direction, no. Another half-hour or so should show us her make and then we’ll know what to ready for.” They flash him a humorless smile. “Might be best to stay below for this encounter, Lord de Marco, I doubt they mean us well.”

Caleb plasters a polite smile on his face and makes his pleasantries, but stays glued to the rail even when the doctor moves off belowdecks and leaves him to watch the ship creep ever closer. The mood on deck is tense but calm. Captain Adella herself paces to and fro along the bow, occasionally peering through her spyglass and issuing remarks and muffled orders to her first mate. The _Drensala Vis_ is still under full sail, cruising along at a respectable seven knots, and it’s clear even to Caleb now that the other ship is making course right for them. They’re flying no colors as of yet, and Adella has likewise requested no flags be raised, but the tension is palpable as it grows inexorably nearer.

Quietly, Adella calls for her spyglass. Her first mate hands it over and Caleb watches as she holds it to her eye. The wind whips her long, dark hair back from her face, exposing the twitch of her mouth clearly as she drops the instrument to her side. She turns her face to the side and whispers something to the first mate.

The shift is very subtle, but to Caleb, who was looking intently for it, the entire ship seems to change. The majority of the crew disappears belowdecks, presumably to man the guns, leaving only a skeleton crew of the most burly and fearsome-looking sailors to man the rigging. He can hear, underfoot, the rumble and grind of cannons being pulled into position for use.

_Fjord. Where is Fjord?_

He sees a flash of green in the sails and his stomach turns to knots. But before he can move or speak—to what end he’s not sure—Adella mounts the steps to the aft deck and gives him a curt nod. “You should get below, milord. If you’re not of a mind to make yourself useful, hole up in the galley. It should be safe enough.”

Caleb bites back the snappish reply that rises to his lips. “And if I _am_ of a mind?”

“Doctor Atweel will need an assistant if things go the way I suspect.” She gives him a brusque once-over, as if judging his fitness for battle. It’s a struggle to keep his aspect calm; she doesn’t know the true breadth of his abilities, and though it pains him, he intends to keep them under wraps unless absolutely necessary. “If you think you can hold down a struggling sailor while Atweel roots around in his guts for shrapnel, you’re more than welcome to offer your services.”

Caleb’s mouth flattens. He knows he doesn’t have the strongest stomach, but he’ll be damned if he spends the fight hiding in the _kitchen_. “At your order,” he says, and takes himself off to the infirmary.

If Doctor Atweel is surprised to see him, they don’t show it; they’re too busy unfolding tables and laying down clean sheets in preparation for emergency surgery. The entire room smells like fresh-crushed herbs and the salty ozone of healing magic brimming under the surface of Atweel’s skin, thick enough to start a headache pounding behind Caleb’s eyes as he sets to helping. He wants to ask what they think will happen, but he’s too nervous to give it voice. Instead he says a quiet internal prayer for Fjord’s safety and rolls up his sleeves. And waits.

The first distant boom wrings Caleb’s nerves like a wet cloth. He twitches and stands perfectly still, listening to the whistle, the warning shout. The splinter of wood.

“A glancing blow,” Atweel mutters without looking up from their mortar and pestle. “Testing us.”

Caleb looks around for a porthole, but the infirmary is on the port side of the ship, facing the opposite direction of the incoming vessel. Sweat beads under his arms and he paces back and forth, listening for the telltale cries of wounded. So far, nothing. “Have you been in many of these… these sea battles, then?”

“Plenty.” Atweel’s stern lips soften slightly. “We’ve survived our share of pirate attacks, Lord de Marco. Have no fear. The Captain knows what she’s about.”

As if to punctuate their words, another blast rips into their hull—or so it sounds from the snap of wood and the faint cries. Adella’s voice pierces above the rest and then, in a glorious series of roaring explosions, the entire starboard side of the _Drensala Vis_ explodes in canonfire. And the battle is truly underway.

Caleb has little time to fear for Fjord after that. There’s a steady stream of wounded that require his attention, and he soon realizes that by _assistant_ , what Captain Adella had really meant was _medic._ Under Atweel’s clipped direction, and sometimes at his own discretion when their attention is bent elsewhere, he pulls shrapnel from chests and binds wounds with pastes and tinctures until he can barely think through the bitter iron stench of blood and herbs. The doctor doesn’t seem worried, only intensely focused on their work, and so Caleb tries to mimic that attitude, swallowing back bile when it threatens to rise in the back of his throat.

He’s started to lose track of time when the entire ship shudders around them, and he has to brace his hands on the table or be thrown to the ground where sand soaks up the worst of the blood. There’s a shout from above, a garble of words Caleb’s haywire brain can’t parse. Atweel meets his eyes across the room.

“We’re boarding them.”

The pit of Caleb’s stomach turns to ice and he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Fjord is going to be part of the boarding party. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s strong and capable, worthy of Captain Adella’s trust. And it feels _wrong_ , suddenly, that Caleb is down here, cowering in this miasma of stench and weeping, trying to hold weak mortal bodies together when he should be _up there_ at Fjord’s side. Where he’s meant to be.

Heat and fury surges beneath his skin. It’s been too long since he felt that crackling energy, the unparalleled high of fighting side by side with his friend. Dare he say, his lover. He wipes shaking hands on his tunic and feels the instinctive arcane power begin to blacken his fingertips.

“I need,” he says, voice shaking, “I need to go above. I need—”

“You’ll be killed,” Atweel snaps—but they’re unable to move from their post, halfway through sewing up a kobold’s scaley hide, and they cannot stop him as he flounders past the handful of waiting wounded like a drowning man and up onto the deck.

Everything topside is chaos. Smoke from canonfire lingers over the ship like a shroud, thick and choking. Caleb coughs and holds his shirt collar over his face just to breathe as he looks around. The other ship has pulled abreast of them, and the roar of canonfire has been replaced by the roar of the enemy crew as they curse and taunt those still left standing aboard the _Drensala Vis._ And there are far, far fewer of those than Caleb would like. They aren’t the ones doing the boarding, he realizes with horror. The pirates are the ones boarding _them._

He can feel the _slam_ of the gangplanks being lowered as vibrations underfoot, and some animalistic, instinctive part of him drops to the deck, hands and knees. Where earlier that day the wooden planks had been scrubbed clean with saltwater and tallow, now they’re a mess of grit and rubble and the blackpowder ghosts of canonfire streaked across the deck. The crackle of flame rises in his memory and he shudders violently as he struggles to wipe soot from his hands.

“ _Quiet!_ ”

The mad scramble going on at the fringes of the deck grinds to a scattered halt. Through smoke-stung eyes, Caleb watches with a pang of muted horror as an impossibly tall man, grey-skinned, with a flowing mane of dark, spiralling curls, stands at the cusp of the _Drensala Vis_ , surveying it like a lord beholding his kingdom. The enemy captain, Caleb presumes somewhere in the back of his mind—the rest of him is overcome with fear.

“You are overwhelmed,” the goliath intones in a low, stretched-out voice that weighs on Caleb’s eardrums. It’s almost, not quite, the same honey-sweet drawl that Fjord carries in the roof of his mouth like candy, but grating and ground down with cruelty. “Your captain is defeated. Surrender now, and I may be persuaded to show you mercy.”

Caleb’s eyes sting with grit and smoke, but he wipes them on a clean patch of sleeve until he can peer unimpeded across the deck and _there_ —Captain Adella on the ground, on her back, chest still rising and falling but her blood starting to seep out of her as the goliath stands on her outflung arm, pinning her down. Utter silence cloaks the deck.

“What mercy?”

Like a toy being jerked along on a string, Caleb twitches violently at the sound of that voice. It’s Fjord. Of course it’s Fjord. He stands alone at the ship’s wheel, falchion in hand, dripping with saltwater and the blood of the pirate who lies crumpled at his feet.

The goliath blinks, as if surprised into silence that someone would dare challenge him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said,” Fjord seethes, voice deadly soft, “ _what mercy_?” He flicks his sword and it shines gold-red in the sun that pierces through the smoke as he descends the stairs. He isn’t even wearing his armor, and yet he looks impossibly regal, imbued with light that frames his tangled hair like a halo. Blood smears his chest where his shirt has been torn asunder, but not his own—as far as Caleb can tell, crouched and quivering in the wreckage of the mainmast, he’s taken no wounds at all. “What mercy is there from a coward like you?”

“Coward,” the goliath echoes, and laughs, a ringing, horrible sound with no emotion behind it. “Bold words, orc boy. What are you, then, her lover? To show such unwavering loyalty?” He grinds his foot deeper into Adella’s shoulder, but she only grits her teeth and refuses to make a sound. “I’m almost impressed. Tell me, what sort of leash does she keep around your neck that you would flirt with death this way?”

As carefully and unobtrusively as he can, Caleb begins searching his pockets for spell components. _Fool_ , he spits, thinking of his coat lying unattended in his cabin belowdecks. What use is it to him now?

“No leash,” Fjord says. He’s but a meter or so from the goliath captain, blade still bare, chin high and unafraid. His free hand rests at his side, fingers just barely twitching as if to hold an invisible coil of arcane energy there, waiting. Caleb’s heart sings. “But if I had one I would choke you with it.”

There’s a purple-black flashbang and Caleb’s vision goes white. _Witch bolt_ , he thinks, though he’s never been staring directly at it when Fjord casts it. He can hear the angry roar of the goliath, but the entire deck is just an overexposed smear of shapes and smudges against the back of his skull. And then, like a horrible nightmare come to life, a painfully familiar cry.

With a sob sitting silent in the depths of his chest, Caleb presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. He has to _do_ something, he can’t just sit here and listen to Fjord’s gurgling as the goliath chokes him to death. The world begins to come back to him in bits and pieces and he scrabbles in the rubble, searching, searching—

“Congratulations,” the goliath sneers. Wreathed in smoke, he holds Fjord up by his throat, seeming unbothered by the weight—Fjord kicks and clutches at his enormous grey hand, but to avail. “I offered mercy and you declined. Now the rest of you know who to thank when you take your last breath.”

Though he longs for the little packet of sulfur kept in his coat, the ash in his hands will have to be enough. Caleb scrambles to his feet and cries, “ _Wait_.”

The goliath captain barely has enough time to look in his direction. Teeth gritted together around the incantation, Caleb grinds the lumps of charcoal in his hand to powder and points with the other. A heartbeat passes. Two.

_Ka-BOOM._

Impossibly loud, loud enough to ache in the depths of his eardrums, the powder magazine of the enemy ship explodes into raw flame. The heat of it surges toward Caleb like a tsunami, wiping the deck clean of smoke and rubble and sending him staggering. The goliath staggers, too, face gone blank with shock as his ship is blown sky-high—flaming cinders rain down like snow, catching briefly in the sails of the _Drensala Vis_ before their wax coating starts to soften and melt and extinguish them.

The goliath is still holding Fjord—Fjord, who is looking at him, staring at him with wide yellow eyes that bulge in his face. Airless. Drowning on dry ground. And then his legs kicks out, striking his captor just above the knee. Caleb’s chest seizes in a matching grip of terror as the goliath totters backward and disappears over the side of the ship, dragging Fjord with him.

“ _Fjord!”_ he screams, though he’s largely deaf to the sound of his own voice—fire is raining down and he’s blind to it as he runs to the edge of the ship and jumps.

It takes longer to hit the water than he was expecting. When he does, he’s not quite ready for it, and the suddenness of it feels like jumping off a building straight onto bedrock. All the wind is smacked out of him and his legs ache as the icy ocean consumes him, tearing the breath from his lungs in a steady stream of bubbles spiraling surfaceward in a tangle of silver. He forces his eyes open despite the cold and pressure, despite the sting of salt. _Fjord… Fjord, where are you, dammit—_

He can’t see anything. Only the deep, yawning blue-black below, and the surge of orange-red above. And him trapped between the two like a fly caught between sheaves of paper.

Arms wrap around him suddenly, strong and steady and warm. He writhes for a second before understanding kicks in, and water rushes by, flowing past his body and tearing at his clothes until suddenly he is thrust upward into the light. He gasps for air, chokes on it—the arms around him loosen and turn him until he’s face to face with Fjord, clutching at his shoulders as the half-orc keeps them afloat in the wreckage-studded ocean.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Fjord croaks. He sounds like he’s been gargling nails, and the goliath’s handprint has been branded into his throat in shades of blue and black, but he’s there, alive, breathing. Caleb coughs up a little bit of water and clings to him. “Cay—”

“Did I ruin everything?” Caleb rasps. He can feel the weight of the _Drensala Vis_ in the water next to them, rimed with flickering flame, but he doesn’t dare look to see for himself. “Have I ruined us?”

“Well you certainly gave yourself away, sir wizard,” Fjord says, and he sounds like he’s holding back _laughter_ of all things. “But I think Adella will forgive you.”

Fjord’s skin is wet and chilled beneath Caleb’s cheek, and the feel of his heart beating steady beneath his collarbone is addictive—but he manages, somehow, to lift his head enough to survey the damage.

The enemy ship is… barely afloat. Most of it is scattered across the water in bits of wreckage and burning sailcloth, and the rest trembles on the waves, empty of any living thing. To their right, the _Drensala_ ’s starboard side is blackened and charred with the force of Caleb’s explosion, but it appears to only be surface damage. There are shouts and activity from on deck as flaming scraps are tossed overboard, but Fjord and Caleb float at a safe distance from it all, cradled in the wreckage of the enemy ship.

“I’m sorry.” Caleb feels Fjord drawing him closer and goes willingly, grateful for the support as they bob like corks in the vast ocean. “I—he was going to _kill_ you—”

“Shh. I know.” Fjord holds him close with one arm around his waist, and with the other hand tucks a lock of wet hair out of Caleb’s face. His eyes are liquid gold, staring at him with such soft-edged adoration that Caleb can hardly breathe. “You’re brilliant, Caleb. How on earth did you pull that off?”

Caleb shakes his head mutely. “I couldn’t let him have you. You’re _mine_ ,” and it’s a clumsy, irreverent confession, but he’s burning with too much left-over fear to make much sense. He can feel the fallout coming, the inevitable crash after channeling so much raw power, but for now the adrenaline is enough to keep him going.

“Cay.” Fjord rests his brow to Caleb’s, noses nudging slightly—not quite a kiss. “It would take more than a few seafaring idiots to tear me away from you. You know that, right? You know that I’m yours.”

Something raw and feral rises up in Caleb’s chest and he tangles his hands in Fjord’s wet hair, dragging him into a kiss. It’s just on the edge of painful, too much teeth and not enough tongue, but it feels _right_. His ribs feel on the verge of cracking open, but the harsh, sweet warmth of Fjord’s mouth helps seal the cracks with gold.

“Hey, lovebirds!” calls a voice. They look up to see Captain Adella silhouetted against the gunpowder sky, leaning heavily on Doctor Atweel for support. “You want to swim to shore or are you coming aboard?”

Fjord waves back an assent and begins to tow Caleb shipward. His strokes are powerful but slow as they navigate the wreckage; Caleb feels limp as a wet rag dragged along in his wake. That’s when he sees the blood.

“Fjord?”

“Hmm?” He turns to glance behind, mouth smudged with soot where he’d kissed him.

“You’re bleeding.” Caleb touches his side with numb fingers, pulling side his loose shirt to expose the tattered flesh of his ribs. “ _Fjord—_ ”

“It’s fine,” Fjord says quickly. “It’s—it caught me in the explosion, but it’s fine, Doctor Atweel will set me to rights.”

Caleb wants to protest, but there’s nothing he can say as they pull abreast of the _Drensala_ and are met with a rope ladder. He laments his empty pockets once more—what he wouldn’t do for a bit of gosling down and salt—and tangles a hand in the wet rope. “Hold on to me,” he says, brooking no argument.

Fjord apparently has no energy left to fight him on it. He wraps his good arm around the rope and with his other presses Caleb to his side. “Pull!” he calls above, and slowly, inch by inch, they are dragged out of the water and onto the deck of the _Drensala Vis._

* * *

“If I wasn’t so bloody impressed you’d be in the brig right now, de Marco.”

Caleb’s vaguely apologetic smile is more of a thin line stapled to his face—his attention is diverted elsewhere. They’re in the sickbay, free now of wounded sailors but still strewn with bloody sand and muck from the battle’s aftermath. Fjord sits on the table, shirt balled sheepishly in his lap and one arm braced behind his head as Doctor Atweel places neat, orderly stitches into the flesh over his ribs.

“I’m sorry I was reticent with you,” Caleb begins, but Captain Adella is already waving him off.

“You saved our skins. Hells, I should be thanking you, not cursing you.” She wrings a hand through her salt-encrusted hair and paces to the porthole, surveying the wreckage of the enemy’s vessel. Her men are picking it over for anything that might be worth salvaging, and even from the belly of the _Drensala Vis_ Caleb can hear them shouting and laughing as they find treasures and oddities—and, most likely, incredible riches, if the finery the goliath captain was wearing is any indication. The process is being overseen by her first mate, but it seems to be a fairly jovial endeavor. Caleb is vaguely sympathetic, but he’s less interested in the spoils of war than he is in the condition of a certain warlock.

“And _you_ ,” Adella says suddenly, spinning on her heel fast enough to provoke a wince; her arm is in a sling, and she’s already forgotten about her injuries twice in the last ten minutes. “Fjord, that was no sailor’s weapon you were carrying in the battle.”

“Got it off a dead pirate,” Fjord lies smoothly. “I must have lost it when we went overboard.”

“Shame.” Adella is watching him closely; Caleb tries not to fidget. “It was a pretty blade.”

“It—it was.” His wince blends into a soft chuff of pain, and he has to shake his head to keep Caleb from going to him. “I’m fine.”

“Almost done,” Atweel informs the room at large. They hold their hand out. “Scissors.”

Caleb reacts before they’ve even finished the word and drops the required instrument into their palm. Atweel shoots him a look of thanks and snips off the end of the thread, then stands back to allow Caleb to blot blood from the wound and tape a bandage in place.

“Look at you,” Fjord murmurs, watching him work from behind his forearm. His lips quirk in a pleased little smile. “You make a good doctor, my prince.”

Caleb feels his ears flush hot and mutters something nonsensical, but Doctor Atweel is surprisingly quick to chime in. “He does. I would almost be sad to lose him if it weren’t for the tendency to produce… fireworks.”

Adella shakes her head. “I shudder to think of the consequences had your little spell gone awry, de Marco—but since it didn’t, let’s just thank our lucky stars we made it out alive. And in future… do ask _permission_ first, all right?”

“Of course, Captain.” Caleb bows his head, and jumps just a little at the touch of Fjord’s hand on his spine. “If we might be excused…?”

“Yes, yes, be off with you,” Adella says, waving her head at them in fond exasperation. “Do us all a favor and take it easy, yes? You’re still wounded, and I still have a ship to run.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” Fjord intones, his honey-sweet voice dredged in glee. Hot under the collar, Caleb straightens his back and marches out of the room with as much dignity as he can muster.

Up deck, the sky is cloudless and the wind has blown away most of the smoke, although the smell of it still lingers, clinging to the burnt and pitted wood like oakum. A small crew is rigging up a temporary mainmast out of wood scavenged from the enemy ship, and another larger, merrier crew is hauling aboard their spoils: crates of fruit and vegetables, pallets of silks, casks of wine and ale. Caleb has every intention of slipping past them and heading to his cabin—keenly aware of Fjord’s warmth at his back—but to his surprise, a few of the sailors hail him by name, waving him over.

“Sorry to bother you,” says the rough-looking woman who appears to be leading their little group, “but we found this in the hold and thought of you, m’lord.” She gestures to the chest they’ve brought on board. “As thanks for saving our skins.”

At her word, the top of the chest is flipped open. Caleb stares, caught off-guard. He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting—maybe some small, optimistic part of him had been hoping for books—but piles of fabric certainly wasn’t it.

“Clothes?” Fjord chimes in, sounding as confused as Caleb.

“Well,” the sailor explains hastily, “we thought, you’re returning to your family after years not livin’ as a noble, so you’ve probably not got much in the way of finery. Sure, we could try to sell some of this, but we thought it would be put to better use in your hands, m’lord. So you can come home in style.”

Caleb finds himself unexpectedly touched by the gesture. As his brain catches up with his eyes, he starts to see patterns and styles emerge: silk vests and velvet breeches and lacy cravats, tunics edge with gold braid, coats in a variety of dark, jewel-toned shades, even a pair of shiny leather boots sitting atop the pile. “I… don’t know what to say. This is exceedingly generous of you, are you sure it’s all right by the Captain?”

“First mate approved,” she assures him. “Please, let us repay you for your… timely intervention.”

“Tactful,” Fjord mutters so that only he can hear. Caleb resists the urge to elbow him.

“I’m—I’m incredibly grateful,” he stammers. “Please, bring it down to my cabin, if you can spare the time away from your duties—”

Before he can even finish his sentence, they’ve flipped the chest closed and are toting it off up the stairs. Caleb watches them go for a moment, still a bit off-kilter, and startles when Fjord touches a hand to his back. “Well, fancy man?” he murmurs with a twinkle in his eyes. “After you.”

Caleb’s heart skips in his chest and he leads the way across the deck, back to his cabin.

When they arrive, the sailors are just slipping out, tipping them nods and knuckles to their brows in acknowledgement. The chest sits proudly in the center of the room, the lid flung back to expose the riot of colors and textures held within. But Caleb is not to be distracted. He takes Fjord’s wrist in a gentle grip and guides him to the bunk, pressing his shoulder until he sits at the edge, rumpled and smiling.

“Eager to get me into bed, hey?”

“It’s for your own good,” Caleb chides. He brushes Fjord’s side, testing the bandaging, and startles when Fjord’s hand closes over his. “Fjord,” he says sternly.

“Caleb.” Fjord’s expression twitches into something approximating seriousness.

Whatever argument he’d meant to give withers and dies as he meets Fjord’s gaze. His hair is wet and curling with salt, the streak of white at his temple darkened to silver-grey and inviting touch. When Caleb reaches out and pets the curls back from his brow, Fjord’s eyes soften and grow warm.

“Why did you jump?” Fjord whispers.

“I—what?”

“Over the side. Why did you jump?”

Caleb’s mouth is suddenly very dry. “I was afraid you’d be knocked out on the way down. If you’d drowned because of me—I could never forgive myself.”

Fjord’s hand is on his, warm and dry. Then his lips, chapped with salt, grazing his skin and lifting the hairs on his arms and nape. “You risked a lot today. For me.”

“Calculated risks,” he whispers with a little half-shrug. He can’t look away—Fjord’s golden eyes are mesmerizing, drawing him in as he places soft, certain kisses along his palm to the pulse point of his wrist.

“It was calculated, then, you blowing up the powder magazine?”

“Well.” Caleb swallows. “That was… foolish, I admit. But it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Fjord’s grip loosens, and Caleb takes the opportunity to cup his face in both hands, feeling the edge of his smile with his thumb. “Have I told you lately how impressive you are?”

Caleb huffs. “Not as impressive as you. Standing up to that goliath…”

“Yeah, well.” Fjord ducks his head, breaking eye contact for the first time in what feels like hours, and finally Caleb is able to take a proper breath. “Adella was down and it didn’t look like anybody else was up to the challenge. Caleb—”

“Yes?” he says, too quickly. He feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his own skin, like he’s walking a precarious line—a tightrope between two sharp drops, and the end of it is just out of reach.

“Did you mean what you said?” He lifts his head again and takes Caleb’s waist in his hands, gently, like he’s afraid to grip too tightly. All of him is bared—the fear in his face, the scars across his brow and shoulders and chest, all the parts of him that Caleb has never properly seen before. He stands between Fjord’s knees and tries to think in a straight line. Too far one way or the other and he’ll fall into the depths, and this time Fjord might not be there to rescue him. “In the water, before?”

Not for the first time, he curses his perfect memory. _You’re mine_ , he’d said, the most honest words he’s spoken in many long weeks, and he doesn’t think he has it in him to take it back. “Yes. I meant it.” With monumental effort, he forces himself to meet Fjord’s gaze instead of the tempting hollow at the apex of his collarbone.

Fjord’s brow draws in, rumpled and thoughtful. “Not just… a bit of fun, then. This.”

 _This_. He makes no move to clarify, but Caleb doesn’t need it. There’s no pretension here, not anymore. Caleb breathes in and lets it out in a slow, halting, “ _Ja_ —not just that.” He feels aflame, and yet chilled to the bone. His hands drop to Fjord’s broad, smooth shoulders and remain there as if they’ve fused together, frosted over with ice. “Fjord…”

“I’m not askin’ for a confession,” Fjord says quickly, just when the vertigo threatens to knock him off his feet. “Not if you don’t want to, anyway. But you need to know, what I said before—I meant it, too.”

_You know that, don’t you? You know that I’m yours._

“I didn’t mean to,” Caleb blurts. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean to what?”

“To fall in love with you.”

In the warm, intimate embrace of the cabin, there is a pocket of perfect silence. Caleb tries not to shiver. This, he thinks, is the moment is all comes crashing down. And now that he’s said it out loud he doesn’t know how to stop.

“I know that I am a terrible person,” he says, not daring to look at Fjord’s expression, “I know that I’ve done terrible things, but somehow—somehow I fell for my own lie. You told me that I was good, and I believed you. You called me _little prince_ and I ate it up. You—” His voice breaks and falters, but Fjord doesn’t move, doesn’t _breathe_ , just holds him there by the hips and it’s steady enough that Caleb can get the rest of it out. “You kissed me,” he says, eyes fixed to the wooden wall behind Fjord’s head. “And it was better than anything I’ve felt in a very long time.”

Quiet falls again, broken only by the ragged sound of Caleb’s breathing. His chest feels tight, like it had in the dark of the ocean, and his fingers are numb against Fjord’s skin. Then Fjord’s hands move, thumbs tracing the damp folds of his shirt as he draws him closer, closer, til Caleb’s belly is pressed to Fjord’s chest and his quiet, hitching breaths are muffled in dark hair.

“You _are_ good,” Fjord says with quiet vehemence. “You are good, and strong, and brave. I’ll happily call you _little prince_ if it makes you smile, and dammit—” He pulls away a little, just enough that he can take Caleb’s face in his hands and press their foreheads together. “I’ll kiss you as often as you please, _if_ you please.”

Caleb squeezes his eyes tightly shut. “I don’t deserve it.”

Fjord growls discontentedly, and the rumble of it travels through Caleb’s chest and warm his belly as Fjord hugs him tighter. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He gives him a gentle squeeze around the waist and pulls back. “C’mon, love, you’re like a block of ice.”

Caleb watches, off-balance, as Fjord eases back onto the bed and sorts through the bedding. He moves with assurance despite his injury, and a few moments later he’s easing onto his back with a slight wince and patting the empty stretch of mattress beside him. “I’m a bit damp…”

“Go ahead and change, then.” There’s a flash of friendly tooth at the edge of his mouth. “You’ve got plenty to choose from.”

Caleb huffs, secretly relieved as the tension melts from him like water. With fingers that are stiff with cold, he rummages through the open chest and finds a shirt and a pair of fine wool stockings. The shirt is a bit ridiculous, with an ostentatiously ruffled collar and cuffs that end in layers of crisp white lace, but it’s dry and it fits well enough, falling low enough in front to cover his privates. The stockings are woven through with some sort of stretchy material, and cling to his legs as he pulls them on.

“Very handsome,” Fjord murmurs, his voice gone hoarse and grating. His eyes are heavy-lidded, watchful as Caleb crawls up onto the bed and perches on his knees, regarding him openly. “What?”

Caleb reaches out and brushes a fleck of soot from his cheek. “So are you. _Very handsome_.” With a nervous heart made calmer by the warmth of Fjord’s hand on his thigh, Caleb bends down and fits their mouths together.

Fjord hums, pleased, and tangles his free hand in Caleb’s shirt as the kiss grows hot, tongue is slick and inviting in Caleb’s mouth. With a little grunt and a sigh, Caleb squirms his way down to lay against him, pressed to his good side as Fjord rubs his hip and flank possessively.

“You should rest,” Caleb breathes, a short, hitching half-protest that’s quickly smothered under Fjord’s lips. His only response is a low, derisive sound and the squeeze of a hand over his arse. “ _Fjord_ …”

With a slick sound and a gasp, Fjord breaks the kiss and smirks at him from the pillow. “What?”

“You are bold.” Stern, but not displeased, Caleb plucks Fjord’s hand from his backside and settles it on his waist instead. “You are _injured_ , bärchen, you should not be straining yourself… hmm.”

“Hmm?” Fjord echoes with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Something wrong?”

Caleb feels his cheeks heating as he shifts in Fjord’s lap, feeling the insistent lump of a growing erection under his thigh. “You are… surprisingly, ah, alert…”

“I’m tired, not dead. Thanks to you.” Fjord squeezes his waist, strong and sturdy, and Caleb can’t help wriggling against him just a little bit. “And _you_ are cold, and quite lovely.” The glint of playful humor in his eye softens. “The loveliest creature I’ve ever beheld.”

“Flatterer,” Caleb murmurs, keenly aware of the hot, tidal shift of blood inside his body at those words.

“I can’t help it. You inspire flattery, Caleb.” Fjord’s brow rumples briefly. “I—fuck. I never told you, did I?”

Caleb’s hazy, pleasure-tinged mind goes sharp as ice. “Told me what?”

Fjord lifts a hand to his cheek. “That I love you.”

Caleb feels like he’s been slapped. All the air is forced from his lungs and his ear ring with the shock of hearing it said out loud so plainly. “Fjord…”

“I do.” He is suddenly quite serious. “I love you, Caleb Widogast. And I will not be dissuaded from it.”

Still breathless, overcome with emotions he finds himself poorly equipped to deal with, Caleb does the only thing he can think of to do: he leans down and kisses him, hard. And decides, in the privacy of his own head, that whatever adventure comes next, he’s going to lean into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I let the entirety of Fjord's arc go by without updating, I had to include a cameo by my boy the Plank King and a makeshift wall of fire. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that their feelings are out in the open, Fjord and Caleb take some much-needed time to rest, recuperate, and screw each other silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit it's finally finished!! Through the course of writing this fic Fjord's arc came and went, I met a bunch of really awesome people in the community, and Fjord and Caleb have only become dearer to me. Thank you loads and loads to everyone who's left lovely comments, it means the world to me! And thank you, of course, to my amazing beta and friend Grey, who snuck into the doc at the eleventh hour and betaed the last chapter under the cover of night like fic-batman. <3
> 
> Translation note: the discussion around "ich liebe dich" was provided through very helpful conversations with nottanothercritter (@nottanycritter on twitter). Thank you so much for your help!!!

The afternoon passes in a warm, honey-drenched haze. Although Fjord insists he’s well enough for lovemaking, Caleb is less certain, and keeps hands firmly above waists until Fjord gives up and dozes off. Caleb drifts, too, though he’s too keyed-up to really sleep. Instead he lays nestled against Fjord’s side and watches his face, slack and peaceful in repose.

He feels like a fool, both for taking so long to admit his attraction, and for succumbing to it. There is a seed of anguish buried in him that insists Fjord deserves better. Deserves someone braver, more cunning, more kind. Someone who doesn’t have a whole history of darkness buried six feet deep beneath his skin.

But the truth is that Fjord has his own darkness, his own demons. He has come awake sweating and shaking in the night, clinging to Caleb like he’s his own only lifeline to the surface—has confessed, in halting, ragged tones, glimpses of his history. There are parts of them that walk in tandem like old friends long parted, hand in hand down a narrow, shrouded lane. Finding their way together in the dark. There is a piece of Fjord buried in him now, Caleb thinks. And a piece of Caleb inside Fjord. Looking at him now, face soft and slumbering, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be free of it; nor does he want to, even if he could.

As he watches him sleep, besotted, Fjord’s nose wrinkles up and he mumbles a little waking-up noise. Caleb drops his head to the pillow and lets his eyes grow heavy. Beside him, Fjord’s quiet chuckle shakes the mattress.

“Caught you.”

“Caught me what?”

“Lookin’.” Fjord drapes an arm over Caleb’s waist and squeezes his hip, nudging him a little closer. Caleb can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of his shirt. _Not fair._ “Like what you see?”

“Very much.” Embarrassed, Caleb ducks his head and presses a kiss to Fjord’s throat, the underside of his jaw where it smells of salt and musk. He slides his knee between Fjord’s thighs and is rewarded with a low, rumbling hum and a large hand cupping his arse. “Fjord…”

“Hmm?”

“Are you certain you’re all right?”

Fjord’s hand migrates from Caleb’s backside to his waist, firmly _above_ the shirt rather than beneath it. “I’m more than _all right_.” He nudges Caleb’s brow with his chin, then his lips. Each steady breath puffs warmly against Caleb’s temple, and a moment later he feels Fjord’s other hand come up to comb through his hair, claws delicate and precise against his scalp. A shiver runs down his spine and he presses closer. “Are you?”

Caleb is so thrown by the question that he untangles himself a little and pops up like a cowardly fieldmouse rising from the grass for the first time to observe the sky. Fjord’s eyes are still soft and creased from sleep, but his brow pulls in towards the center, puckered with concern over the bridge of his nose. Unable to help himself, Caleb reaches out and smooths that gentle furrow with his thumb. “I’m all right. I just… I find I don’t quite know what to do with myself around you, anymore.”

Fjord’s hand trembles on his waist, uncertain, but Caleb reaches down and clasps it tighter. “I’m sorry,” Fjord murmurs, abashed. “If I’ve overstepped…”

“Certainly not.” Caleb huffs and catches a hand through his stiff, salt-coiled hair, holding him still for a quick, stern kiss. “There’s no need for apologies, _bärchen_. I just… need to adjust. To this.” He softens his grip on Fjord’s hair and rubs that persistent furrow, the silver in his short-cropped hair, admiring the way his yellow eyes seem to glint like liquid gold in the low light. “Like relearning a very old dance I used to know…”

“I don’t think I ever knew it,” Fjord admits slowly. “But if you’re willing to be patient with me, I’d like to learn.”

Caleb smiles and leans down. “It would be my honor.”

Fjord catches his mouth with his own and Caleb is lost. All his hesitancy has vanished, and he doesn’t shrink away when Fjord’s hands slide up under his shirt to squeeze his waist. They linger there, thumbs following the divots of his ribs, and slowly Caleb is coaxed forward to straddle Fjord’s lap. He settles there with a contented sigh, wriggling slightly to feel the growing hardness swell between his thighs.

“Fjord,” he gasps, and claws at the open plackets of his borrowed shirt. “Can I—”

“Yeah. Please. Just—take care—”

“I know.” With trembling hands, Caleb strips him of his shirt and bends down to mouth an open kiss to Fjord’s collarbone. His skin is warm and faintly salty, and he swears he can feel the rapid drumming of Fjord’s heart when he drags his tongue along his sternum.

“Fuck, Cay—”

Apparently unable to finish a sentence, Fjord lets his voice drop off into a strangled groan as he pushes Caleb’s shirt up his belly. The waistband of his stockings is twisted a little, and looking down at himself Caleb can see his cock pushing against the knit fabric, standing completely erect and unimpeded by smallclothes. Fjord spreads his hands greedily across Caleb’s straining thighs and tightens the fabric even more, until each twitch and shudder of Caleb’s pelvis is visible through the thin material.

“Look at you,” Fjord breathes. He massages his fingers into the taut muscle of Caleb’s thigh and watches with a look of deep hunger as his cock twitches and leaks a spot of damp against the fabric. Caleb whines in the back of his throat as Fjord drags his thumb over the spot. “Beautiful.”

Caleb gathers the fluffy, layered fabric of his shirt collar and drags it over his head with an impatient growl. His pendant smacks against his chest as he rolls his hips, grinding slowly against Fjord’s erection. “I’m not hurting you?” he asks, bracing a hand to Fjord’s sternum.

“You’re—no. No, I’m fine.” Fjord drags his claws down Caleb’s thighs, lightly, barely scoring the skin through the stockings’ delicate weave. “God above and below, Caleb…” His soft, sturdy belly flexes under Caleb’s hands as he pushes his hips up into Caleb’s backside. His cock fits insistently into the crease of his thigh and Caleb fumbles lower, fingers stumbling around the laces of his trousers.

“Can I…?”

“Yeah. Please.” With eyes gone dark and golden-rimmed like an eclipse, Fjord falls back against the pillow and amuses himself with stroking Caleb’s knobbly knees as he gets Fjord’s trousers open. Fjord is fairly smooth-skinned, as a rule, with only flecks of dark, curling hair here and there across his chest, but there’s a deliciously well-defined line of thick fur marching south from his navel and Caleb is eager to get his hands on what lies at the end of it.

His hands are shaking, making the task difficult, but the reward is well worth it. He shuffles Fjord’s trousers down his hips an inch or two and tugs the laces back with one finger. Fjord’s cock lays thick against his belly, fat with pulsing veins and ridged along the underside in a way that Caleb wasn’t expecting.

Fjord shifts beneath him, snapping his attention back into place, and he watches as Fjord rubs the back of his neck and gives an awkward cough. If he’s blushing, Caleb can’t see it, but he can practically feel the heat of arousal and embarrassment lifting off him into the air. “If it’s that bad I don’t mind keepin’ a lid on it—”

“ _What_? Scheiße, no, sorry, that isn’t… I was admiring it. That’s all.” Now _Caleb_ is blushing, even though he’s arguably more covered than Fjord is, if only just. “May I…?”

“Please.”

At Fjord’s hitching assent, Caleb reaches down and wraps his hand around its girth. He’s felt it before, a few times now—once or twice in the early morning when Fjord was sleeping wrapped around him like an octopus, and the night before when the fragile pretension between them had splintered apart—but never like this, never skin to skin. It’s even warmer than the rest of him, smooth even where the top half turns slightly textured under his hand, and when he drags his thumb over the head, he finds it slippery with precum. Fjord trembles beneath his weight and digs his fingers into Caleb’s thighs.

“You’re killin’ me,” he rasps. “Caleb—” He reaches for him, trying to sit up, and falls back against the pillow with a bitter curse. “Fucking…”

“Easy,” Caleb murmurs, firming up his grip. “Don’t strain yourself, my love. Let me take care of you.”

“I want to take care of _you_ , too,” Fjord insists, but his breaths are short and stifled and there’s a tightness to his mouth that speaks of real discomfort.

“You will.” Caleb leans down and kisses him, gentling the frantic bite of his mouth with lips and tongue. “Just relax, Fjord.” Another kiss, matched to the soothing pull and release of his hand. Fjord whimpers into his mouth and Caleb swallows the sound as he presses his thumb into the ridges beneath his frenulum. “Do you want me to blow you, _dar_ ling?” he whispers, more than half-serious despite his tone. He forms a snug ring with his fingers and teases the first few inches as precum leaks out of him in a steady trickle.

Fjord chokes on nothing and twitches up into his grasp. “Fuck—anything, Cay, whatever you want. Please…”

It only takes a little bit of adjusting to get himself at eye level with his pelvis. Mouth watering, Caleb leans down and licks a teasing little back-and-forth motion across the head of Fjord’s cock. The salt of precum fills his mouth, offset with a touch of acid, almost like citrus. Smiling at his own fancy, Caleb tongues the underside and fits his lips over the head. Fjord is… proportional, to say the least. Caleb’s mouth forms a perfect _O_ that stretches his jaw as he sinks down slightly, just testing, rolling his tongue along the underside. His free hand braces itself against Fjord’s thigh and he can feel him shaking, warm skin alive with tremors as Fjord struggles to keep still.

“Cay,” he chokes, brushing the hair out of Caleb’s eyes with trembling hands. “Holy hell…” He swallows a garbled cry as Caleb pulls up and off with a wet _pop_ and licks his lips obscenely. “You’re gonna kill me. I can’t—I—”

Caleb kisses the slick head again, softly, conscious of his beard against the tender skin, and massages the ridges underneath with his thumb. “Good?”

“ _Good_ , he asks,” Fjord wheezes. “Yeah, it’s fuckin’ _good_. Ah… I wish I had your fuckin’ perfect memory so I could keep this—” and he tightens his grip slightly in Caleb’s hair, eyes dark and appreciative, “—in my mind forever.”

“There’s an easy solution to that, my love.” Caleb licks him again, relishing the flavor. “I will just have to remind you when you forget.”

Fjord’s nostrils flare on the inhale and he scrabbles at Caleb’s shoulders. “Wait, what are you—”

Whatever else he means to say is lost as Caleb takes him in his mouth and sinks down. The weight and size of him is considerable, but Caleb has always appreciated a challenge. He keeps his throat lax and his lips curled over his teeth and steadies himself against Fjord’s hip as he bobs down and back up again, exploring the limits of his throat with every pass.

“Caleb,” Fjord wheezes, claws tangling in his hair. “Darlin’, I’m not gonna last very long.”

With a soft hum, Caleb pulls off and work him one-handed instead, letting his saliva ease the way. “I don’t mind, _bärchen_. It’s not a competition.” He kisses the dark blue-green tip and smiles when Fjord lets out a strangled curse and flings one arm over his eyes.

“We’ve been cooped up in this cabin together for weeks,” Fjord whines. “It’s been _torture_ sleeping next to you every night.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“Ha! No, don’t apologize.” Fjord grins and peers at him from beneath his corded forearm, topaz eyes glinting feverishly in the low light as Caleb’s fist eases back and forth, twisting slightly with each stroke. “I suppose it was inevitable.”

“What was? Me, blowing you in a tiny cabin right next to the Captain’s quarters?”

“Yeah—yeah, somethin’ like that.” Despite Caleb’s teasing, Fjord’s expression is tender—the curl of his hand in Caleb’s hair softens to cup the back of his head and draws him down. It’s too gentle to be an order, but Caleb obeys the silent exhortation anyway, letting Fjord guide the path of his mouth to his cock.

It doesn’t take too much longer after that. Fjord’s breath comes increasingly short and desperate in his chest, and it takes most of Caleb’s upper body strength to keep him from bucking and tearing his stitches when he comes, messily and with a cry muffled in his forearm that still manages to reverberate against the low ceiling. Caleb tries to swallow, but his struggle with Fjord’s hapless shuddering makes him clumsy, and Fjord’s seed wells against his tongue and palate and smears across his lips, tangy and salt-sour. He catches the base with one hand in the trembling aftermath and licks up every drop, humming and content.

“Fuck me,” Fjord wheezes, completely wrung out. Caleb laughs.

“Is that a request or an exclamation?”

“Hah… the latter. Nngh.” Fjord reaches for him, cupping his cheek, the back of his neck, drawing him closer. “C’mere, Caleb. Please.”

Willingly enough, Caleb crawls up his body and kisses him when it’s clear that Fjord doesn’t care that his kisses are noticeably hotter and saltier than usual. He licks greedily into his mouth and urges them closer, closer, until Caleb is laying against his good side, fingers entwined on Fjord’s chest as they kiss.

“I love you,” Fjord murmurs when they part. He sounds drunk, or half-asleep, but the lazy quality of his voice belies the intensity of his gaze. Caleb is possessed by it, compelled by it—he moves hardly of his own accord to kiss Fjord’s mouth, his cheek, the noble arch of his brow. Fjord hums beneath his ministrations, a low, drawn-out sound that almost seems independent of his breathing. Like a growl, or a purr.

Caleb pulls back at last, breathless, and giggles at the touch of Fjord’s hand rubbing up his flank and his nose beneath his jaw. “Fjord— _Fjord_ , what are you doing—?”

“Hmmm,” Fjord rumbles, nuzzling the crook of his throat. “Smelling you.”

“Smelling me?” Caleb echoes, oddly charmed. “What do I smell like to you?”

Fjord hums thoughtfully as his hand slips back down, skirting the jut of Caleb’s hip to slip inside his stockings. “Like me.”

“And that’s—ah—that’s a good thing?”

“ _Very_ good,” Fjord says seriously. He licks his lips and Caleb wonders if it’s possible to die of a heart attack at his age as Fjord’s hand wraps around his half-hard cock and thumbs the tip. “Is this all right, Caleb?”

“It’s—yes. It’s good.” Caleb moans and hides his face in Fjord’s neck, suddenly flustered over being seen so plainly. He can still taste Fjord in the back of his throat—then salt, when he buries his teeth in the meat of Fjord’s shoulder to keep from crying out at the tender grip of his hand. “Fjord…”

“May I make you cum?” Fjord purrs, and that’s it—orgasm lights up his spine like a burst of sudden light and his hips jerk as he spends onto Fjord’s hip and thigh. Heaving for breath and sense, Caleb subsides against his chest and sprawls his hand out there, searching for a heartbeat beneath the skin to mark time by.

“Fjord,” he whispers, as his blood and bones and flesh return to their proper places.

“Yeah?”

He resists the urge to dig his nails into Fjord’s sternum possessively, tries to content himself with the press of palm to skin. There are a thousand things he wants to say, to lay claim to, but they boil down to one thing, so easy to say it rolls off the tongue: “ _Ich liebe dich_.”

Fjord hums, a sonorous rumble beneath his cheek. “Go to sleep, darlin’. Tell me again when you remember how to speak Common.”

Caleb wants to scoff at him, but he’s too exhausted. Instead he presses a kiss to Fjord’s chest and lets his eyes fall shut, cradled in the sturdy warmth of his arms. The words will come to him when they’re ready.

* * *

In the early morning there comes a scratching at the door. Caleb jerks awake, heart racing, before recognizing the particular pattern and cadence of it and slipping out of bed, pulling his discarded shirt over his head as he goes. Nott greets him at the door, smelling strongly of gunpowder, dinner on a tray. She peers around Caleb with one huge golden eye and smirks to see Fjord sprawled on the bed with an obvious empty space beside him, bare chest rising and falling with every breath.

“Have a nice night?” she whispers, only slightly less scratchy than usual.

“Ja, thank you.” His brief flare of irritation at her intrusion subsides when he realizes he hasn’t seen her at all since the battle. He drops to his knees and pats her sooty cheeks. “Are you all right, Nott? You weren’t hurt?”

“Naw, I’m fine. I helped with the canons, it was _fucking_ awesome!” Her voice rises slightly in both pitch and volume, and there comes a slight grunt and shuffle of bedding behind them. She bites her lip and whispers, “Sorry! Gotta go, I’m gonna teach Preston how to cheat at dice!” And off she goes, skittering down the hallway like the powder monkey she is.

Caleb rubs his smudged hands on his shirt without thinking about it and gives a mild curse. Less than a day and he’s already ruining his new clothes. He sighs and stands up, bringing the tray of food with him to the writing desk.

“Wazzat?” Fjord rumbles blearily from the bed.

“Food.” Caleb lifts the tray’s cover and his stomach rumbles at the savory smell of stew and seed bread softened with lard. There’s also a small packet of clean bandages wrapped with twine and a clay pot of medicine for Fjord’s wounds. Bless Atweel’s foresight. “Are you hungry?”

“Mmgh. Yeah.” The sound of rustling and pained grunts draws Caleb’s eye, and he turns to watch as Fjord shuffles into a semi-upright position, mouth taut with pain. Caleb abandons the tray and goes to fuss over him, propping the pillows up behind his back and tucking the blankets in around his waist.

“Do you want to put something on?” he asks, pressing his fingers lightly to Fjord’s well-padded ribs. The skin to either side of the bandages is slightly warm, but not dangerously so. “I should probably change your dressing.”

“If you think it needs doing.” Fjord’s head lolls back against the wall and he smiles faintly. “You’re the expert healer here, not I.”

“I’m hardly an expert, but I’ve had to dress my share of wounds over the years.”

Clinging to what tidy smidgeon of professionalism still remains, Caleb peels the bandages from Fjord’s side and cleans the blood-spotted stitches before smoothing on fresh ointment. Fjord twitches slightly under his touch but doesn’t seem uncomfortable beyond a little pain, and the sincere murmur of his gratitude settles like a warm blanket over Caleb’s shoulders. When he’s finished with the new dressing, he finds a loose-fitting black shirt in the trunk and helps ease it over Fjord’s shoulders, keeping the front open to keep his wound from being irritated.

When he’s finished, Caleb sits back and regards him closely. “If I attempt to spoon feed you, will you be angry with me?”

Fjord’s brows hike up nearly to his hairline. “Angry? Of course not. But I’m still not going to let you.”

“That’s what I thought.” With a little smile, Caleb leans in and kisses the curve of his temple, where the skin is smooth and warm near his hairline. He feels Fjord’s hand settle at his waist and he sighs. “Let me just get the tray, then.”

As promised, Caleb doesn’t attempt to spoon feed him, but he _does_ keep a very close eye on Fjord as he eats. Fjord, politely, pretends not to notice. When he’s finished he lets Caleb take his bowl without complaint and settles back against the pillows. Caleb arranges their dishes on the tray, then rearranges them. He knows he’s stalling—he’s just not sure for what. “Did you… rest well? Are you in pain?”

“Mmm. I’m fine. Stop fussing.” Fjord’s voice is light, but there’s something underneath it—concern, maybe, or frustration. Caleb makes himself stop sorting the dishes and pulls the overlong sleeves of his ridiculous ruffled shirt over his hands to keep them still. As if sensing his awkwardness, Fjord sits up and swings his feet to the floor, extending his hand in summons until Caleb comes to stand between his knees, still in his stocking feet. He makes a cute little gesture with one finger, a slow flick of it from the tip of Caleb's long nose up and over his head. “What’s got a bee in your bonnet, love?” he asks, eyes crinkling at the corners despite the concern on his face.

Caleb’s nerves crumble into laughter at the turn of phrase and he ducks his head down until he can rest his brow to Fjord’s. “I don’t know. It’s silly, I know, it’s just… I’ve been hiding how I really feel about you for so long, and now that I can be completely honest…”

Fjord hums and smoothes his thumbs against Caleb’s hip bones, nudging his face not unlike Frumpkin does—a friendly headbutt to rub the worries out. “I know. It’s a bit of a novelty, yeah?”

“Mmm.”

Caleb rests his hands delicately on the bulwark of Fjord’s shoulders, taking comfort from his strength and quiet grace. It’s an incredible affirmation to realize that this man, usually so reticent and careful to present himself as _normal_ and _nonthreatening,_ has loosened up enough in the privacy of Caleb’s company to have this softness around his eyes, a sweet relaxation at the corners of his mouth. He touches a thumb to his lower lip and smiles when Fjord kisses the spot without hesitation. It’s that delicate, unassuming confidence to voice the fear that’s been lingering in the back of his mind since he woke up: “Everything is going to change when we arrive in Port Damali, isn’t it.”

“What do you mean?”

“All of this… this closeness we’ve cultivated, it’s… it’s a bit situational, _ja_? The others won’t expect it, and we will likely feel awkward being so affectionate in front of them. We will no longer be sharing quarters—”

“Caleb! Hey, easy, easy.” His thumbs imprint calm into Caleb’s hips and one large hand reaches up to cup the back of his neck in comfort. “Who says it’s situational, hey? I ain’t ashamed of the way I feel about you, darlin’. I’ll shout it to the heavens if need be. I know Caduceus won’t mind if I start bunking with you instead, and Nott already knows, doesn’t she?”

“Ja, she does…”

“And has she been anything less than… understanding?”

“I mean.” Caleb’s cheeks warm as he thinks of her saucy greeting. “We haven’t exactly discussed it, but she’s been… erm, supportive. In her own way.”

“There you go. Beau an’ Jester might poke a little fun, but it’s only out of love. Yasha… well, who can really say, but I doubt she’ll make a big deal out of it. So what’s to fear?” He squeezes Caleb’s nape and tips his chin up to kiss him. “I’ve only just got you, darlin’. I ain’t lettin’ you go that easy.”

Caleb lets out a quiet breath and wraps his arms around Fjord’s neck, clinging tightly. “ _Danke_ , Fjord.”

“You’re most welcome.” Fjord chuffs a warm breath against the crook of his neck at Caleb’s muffled sound of surprise. “What? I’ve been travelin’ with you awhile now, I know a _little_ bit of Zemnian.”

“Oh yes? Then what did I say to you last night?”

“You said a lot of things last night,” Fjord teases, voice thick with suggestion. He growls a little, playful, and nibbles the tender skin under Caleb’s jaw where his beard turns to unshaven stubble. “Somethin’ about dick, if I’m not mistaken…?”

Caleb snorts and pinches his ribs—on his good side—and Fjord twitches away with a bout of stifled laughter. “I said _ich liebe dich_.”

“Uh-huh. I don’t think I’ve heard you say that before.” Fjord withdraws and coaxes him down onto his lap, perched on one sturdy thigh with a hand at his waist to steady him. “You sure it’s not somethin’ dirty?”

“It is certainly not.” Caleb leans in and kisses him—his brow, the pretty bow of his mouth, the high plane of his cheekbone. “ _Ich liebe dich_ means… well, the simplest translation is _I love you_ , but it’s also more than that. It is…” He trails off and sighs in frustration. “It is not so simple as that, and Common does it no justice… it is weightier than a simple _I love you_. Quieter, somehow. More serious. It is a declaration, and… and a promise.”

Fjord’s eyes soften and he leans in to nuzzle the gaunt of Caleb’s cheek. “ _Ich liebe dich_ ,” he whispers, and though his accent is a little too smooth, the crisp edges buffed away like the grooves of a coin worn soft beneath a worried thumb, the intensity of it still strikes deep at Caleb’s heart like hammer to anvil. “ _Ich liebe dich,_ Caleb,” like an oath of fealty, low and warm and scrubbed down past the varnish to the sheer honesty underneath.

“ _Ich liebe dich_ , Fjord.” If his voice breaks a little when he says it, Fjord is kind enough not to mention it, only drawing him close for a soft, earnest kiss.

* * *

The next week or so passes in relative peace. Caleb spends most of it tending Fjord, who dislikes his enforced bedrest with a passion, but is considerably more biddable when Caleb is there to quiet his restless energy.

The day before they’re predicted to make landfall in Port Damali, Fjord is even more restless than usual. Even a morning blowjob and a mid-afternoon stroll about the deck aren’t enough to placate him. His wounds are almost entirely healed, the stitches in his side nothing more than small pinprick-like scars that promise to fade entirely with time, and yet he’s still forbidden from doing any strenuous tasks, and he can only peel so many potatoes in the galley before he nicks himself with the blade and has to be chivvied out to do something else.

Caleb finds him sulking in the cabin a little while later, thumb freshly bandaged and a pout firmly in place as he sorts through his belongings in preparation for landfall. He acquiesces to a kiss, and mutters irate thanks as Caleb quietly helps him organize his pack and buff his armor into something approaching respectability.

“I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this,” he mutters afterward, standing with his face buried in Caleb’s windswept hair, “but I’m eager to be off his blasted boat and back into the swing of things.”

Caleb kisses the shell of his ear in comfort and holds him close. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being the reason all of this was necessary.” He heaves a sigh and steps away, hands on hips as he contemplates the stupidly heavy chest they’ll have to cart off the ship and get rid of when the time comes. “If I hadn’t been recognized by Ikithon’s thugs in Nicodranas…”

“Hey. None of this was your fault.” Fjord catches his elbow and drags him in again, lips to brow, every exhale like a kiss of warmth against his hair. “We made it out all right, anyway. And when we face them again we’ll be ready.”

“I hope you’re right.” Caleb brushes aside the fearful thoughts and leans into him, smiling when Fjord takes the brunt of his weight without a flinch or breath of complaint. His injuries have healed well. “At any rate, we have some time to pass before making port. How can I entertain you, love?”

“Hmmmmm.” Fjord’s hand drops from his shoulder to the curve of his spine, rubbing little hypnotic circles there. His gaze falls to the chest shoved up against the wall by the writing desk. “What if we dig through your fancy clothes and figure out if there’s anything you want to keep?”

“Most of it is probably too fancy for me,” Caleb warns.

“So? You clean up nice. Little prince…”

“Ha! I’m never going to be free of that nickname, am I?”

“Does it bother you?” Contrite, Fjord relocates to the chair at the desk, turned askance so he can face the room. “I can stop if you like.”

“No, I don’t mind. It’s…” Caleb trails off as he bends to root through the chest, hands passing over silks and velvets and lace. “Well, it’s a bit of an inside joke by now, although I don’t think I’m worth of the name.”

“Pff. Of course you are. Handsome, graceful, well-spoken… incredibly attractive…”

Caleb throws him a dirty look over his shoulder, making Fjord laugh. “You are far too generous, _Schatz_ , but I can see you’re determined to flatter me.”

“Every day, long as you put up with me.” Fjord’s voice seems to grow deeper and richer with affection, and it warms the nape of Caleb’s neck in a blush.

“Who knew you were such a romantic?” he muses, holding up a silken shirt with neat, pin-straight darts at the sleeves. Despite its pristine make, it’s the most practical garment he’s found so far, if only it will fit…

“Heh. Guilty as charged.” Fjord taps his claws idly against the surface of the desk, watching as Caleb begins shucking his old shirt to try the fit. “Can I… make a request? If you’re gettin’ all gussied up.”

Caleb’s lip curls in a curious smile. “You may.”

“We, uh… sorta ruined those stockings last time, but…” His voice grows a bit muffled as he rubs his mouth thoughtfully with one hand, “if there’s any other pairs…”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He buttons the front of the shirt and twists a bit, testing the give. It’s not as loose as he prefers it, but it fits well enough, and he has to admit the crisp clean feeling is nice against his skin. He smooths the front of it and pulls out a few more choice pieces, draping them over Fjord’s knee. “Hang on to these for me, please?”

“Course. Never know when you might need to attend a ball.” Fjord smiles innocently at him when Caleb turns to look. “Why waste a spell when you can just have the real thing?”

“I am not wasting precious satchel space on cravats,” Caleb tuts, but he produces one from the chest anyway, just to see. He’s never tied one on before so he just drapes the frilly material over his shoulder for later and tugs a smooth silken waistcoat on over the shirt. The buttons are gilded and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and he feels a little ridiculous doing them up, but the gleam in Fjord’s eye as he watches makes the slight discomfort worth it. “What do you think?”

“Very handsome,” Fjord murmurs approvingly. He holds up the trim velvet jacket Caleb dumped on his lap. “Need this?”

“Not yet.”

Caleb shimmies out of his travel-worn trousers and the smallclothes underneath. The shirttails offer a reasonable amount of modesty, but his skinny thighs are still bared to the room, knees knobbly and perpetually bruised, his shins flecked with little wiry hairs. He isn’t particularly self-conscious about his looks, not in the way some people are, but here, half-dressed in elegant clothes not his own, he feels strangely naked under Fjord’s discerning gaze. He’s proud of his strange, awkward legs, industrious and useful, but not exactly _pretty_ —his feet all worn and calloused from the many miles he’s walked in his lifetime. Still, he’s a little bit relieved to cover up the rough patches, the faded scars, the weird curly hairs that sprout in unexpected places as he draws a fresh pair of white silk tights up his legs.

Next are breeches, which fasten with little bows at the outside of each knee. Then Fjord stands to help him into his coat. “Here,” he says softly, taking the cravat from him, “let me.”

Caleb lifts his chin obediently. “You know how to tie one of these monstrosities?”

“Ha! They’re not so bad. I was a cabin boy when I first started my sailing career—little more than a glorified valet.” He swallows past a nostalgic thickness in his voice, eyes intent on the weave and tuck of the cravat around Caleb’s throat. “I would help Vandran with his, sometimes, when he had to dress up for important merchant things.”

Caleb hums and is quiet as Fjord floofs the cravat into place and steps back. “Well? How do I look?”

Fjord’s eyes drop to his feet. “You still need shoes, my prince. Go ahead and sit, and I’ll find you something.”

Caleb sits as instructed, careful of tuck his coat tails out of the way to keep them from getting crushed. When Fjord emerges from the chest triumphantly a moment later, he sighs and sticks one stocking foot out. “I’m not fussing with all of those buckles, so I suppose you’re just going to have to do it for me.”

Without missing a beat, Fjord drops to his knees in front of the chair and takes Caleb’s foot in his hands. His thumb presses firmly to the arch, massaging the lingering soreness, and Caleb swallows a gasp.

“Like this?” Fjord asks lightly, smiling. His fingers stroke the delicate bones of his ankle, then down again, warming his foot through the thin material before moving to the other.

“Fjord,” he murmurs, not quite a complaint.

“Yeah?”

“I’m—you’re not—” He shifts restlessly in his seat, unable to hide the effect Fjord is having on him. The breeches are too snug-fitting to avoid it—he’s getting hard, the borrowed clothes feeling tighter and more stifling by the minute.

“Problem?” Fjord inquires.

Caleb gulps. “Forget the shoes,” he whispers. “Get up here and kiss me.”

Laughing, Fjord drops his feet carefully to the ground and leans up on his knees to kiss him. His large, warm hands rub up his thighs and squeeze at the hardness in his breeches, making Caleb squirm. “Look at you… all worked up.” He finds the laces of his breeches and plucks them open. Like before, his prick stands to attention, red-tipped and leaking through the pristine white of his stockings, and Fjord growls as he bows his head to lick through the fabric.

“I’m starting to think,” Caleb gasps, “that you have a thing for seeing me all dressed up.”

“Oh?” Fjord purrs against his belly, shoving shirt and waistcoat out of the way. “What gave it away?” His tusks press against Caleb’s skin as he kisses below his navel, following the trail of hair that leads into his stockings. Caleb watches with bated breath as he pulls down the waistband and suckles at the rosy head of his cock.

“Mmh… Fjord…” His stocking foot slips and thuds against Fjord’s thigh, giving him an idea. As best he can while Fjord is tenderly laving his cock with his tongue, he works his foot between Fjord’s legs and rubs at the bulge he finds there with an experimental heel. “You should… hmm… put this to good use…”

There’s an obscene slurping sound as Fjord pulls back and wipes saliva off his chin. “Oh yeah?” He grips the sides of the chair and rocks forward, bending in half to rest his face on Caleb’s thigh as he groans. “Fuck… feels real nice.”

Caleb catches Fjord’s hair in a firm but gentle grip and holds him steady. There’s a thrum of half-familiar energy coursing through him, arousal blended with the confident, buzzing edge he sometimes gets when casting. It’s a potent mixture, and it gives him the confidence to guide Fjord’s panting, open mouth to his cock and hold him there. Fjord groans and sets to it with increased determination, seeming to experience no resistance when he takes Caleb all the way to the hilt. Caleb growls and tightens his grip and Fjord goes lax and butter-soft against him.

“Good boy,” he croons, testing the words on his tongue, and Fjord’s cock twitches against his foot. “Oh… you like that?”

Fjord swallows around his cock as if in answer and Caleb relents, pulling him up until he can breathe again, coughing a little and sagging his entire weight into Caleb’s lap. “Fuck, Cay,” he rasps, and ducks his head again. Caleb lets him play with the head of his cock a little while, but when he seems braced to take him down his throat again he tightens his grip on Fjord’s hair to hold him still.

“You have a talented mouth,” he murmurs. “But that’s not what I want.”

Fjord stares up at him, eyes huge and golden, and a flit of a knowing smile pulls at the corner of his swollen mouth. “Tell me how to serve you, my prince.”

Unbidden, a zing of sharp desire bolts through him like lightning, gripping at his insides. Caleb shudders and feels a little dollop of precum smear against his own belly. “I want you to get on that bed,” he says hoarsely, “and I want you to be very good and still for me while I ride you.”

“Of course,” Fjord breathes. He leans his weight forward on his knees and then hesitates. “At your order.”

Another twinge of interest, softened away from unfamiliarity by the eagerness in Fjord’s eyes. Despite his ruined throat and puffy lips, there’s a quietude behind his smile that Caleb recognizes intimately. Whatever game they’re playing, it’s still Fjord underneath, still Caleb under these fancy clothes. Fancy clothes that they’re about to ruin heartily.

“Get on the bed,” he says, tenderly, because as hard as he tries he can never be anything but tender with Fjord. He accepts the soft kiss to his knuckles and watches appreciatively as Fjord stands and moves to the bed. “Clothes off,” he adds quickly. “If you’re comfortable.”

Fjord hums and turns to face him as he strips his shirt off in one smooth motion. He drops it to the floor carelessly and starts on his trousers. The laces take a bit of maneuvering, given the girth of his erection, but at last he’s pushing them down his sturdy thighs along with his smalls, exposing himself fully to Caleb’s eyes for the first time. Caleb bites his lower lip and rubs the flat of his hand up his stomach, under his shirt to massage his nipples.

“Beautiful,” he says, and Fjord’s eyes darken. His hands twitch toward his cock, standing thick and proud, the head exposed and gleaming, bowing a little under its own weight. But a single look from Caleb stays him, and he digs his fingers into his thighs instead, trembling a little. Caleb tugs at his collar and nods. “On the bed. Get yourself situated.”

As soon as Fjord has turned away, Caleb starts stripping. The damned cravat goes first, then the unbuttoned waistcoat and jacket, the breeches. The shirt last, which he deigns to drape carefully over the back of the chair. It hangs there, forlorn as a ghost, as Caleb paces to the bed in stocking feet and swings astride Fjord’s hips.

He can’t help kissing him. His mouth is sweet and lush, tongue welcoming, hands firm and eager as they slide up his back and down to cup his arse. Caleb wiggles a little and moans when he feels Fjord’s cock butting up against his perineum. He eases back a little more, though it breaks the kiss, and bites little marks into Fjord’s chest as two thick fingers rub over his hole through the fabric.

“Tsk, tsk.” Caleb plucks one of his hands from his hips and examines his fingers. Though his claws are slightly worn and smoothed from a few weeks of hard labor at sea, they’re not nearly smooth enough for the task at hand. “I’ll do it myself, just this once,” he says, and reaches between his legs, shoving his hand past the rumpled waistband of the stockings to slick his hole. “Next time I want your fingers in me, Fjord, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Fjord breathes. He’s trembling, chest rising and falling as his eyes zero in on the flexion of Caleb’s wrist. “Are you—don’t you need—?”

“Let’s just say,” Caleb says, voice gone as thin and stretched-out as the stockings he wears, “evocation wasn’t the only field of magic I learned at school.”

Conjuring slick is as easy as a quick prestidigitation, but he still needs a little time to warm up to the intrusion. He loses himself a little in the rhythm of it, one finger then two then three, taking extra care while Fjord practically vibrates to pieces beneath him, cock leaking a steady stream of precum onto his belly. The base seems to be swelling a little as Caleb watches, and he’s suddenly very eager to begin the main event.

“You must tell me,” he says unsteadily, “if this is too strenuous for you.” The sound of his fingers withdrawing from his body is almost embarrassingly loud, and Fjord licks his lips.

“I will. Promise.” He pulls the slack edge of Caleb’s stockings down just a bit, enough to get a large hand around his cock. Caleb isn’t ready for how good it feels—he jerks forward into his grasp and cries out, nearly on the cusp. “Easy,” Fjord soothes, smiling. He reaches back between Caleb’s legs with his free hand, and there’s a sudden tearing sound as the delicate seam gives way before his claws.

“Fjord—”

“Sorry,” Fjord says, not sounding sorry at all. The pads of his first two fingers rub over Caleb’s perineum through the hole he’s made. “I’ll buy you more if you like, little prince—you look too pretty in these things to _not_ fuck you in them.”

Caleb chokes as a hot flush consumes his cheeks and crawls down his neck. Unable to resist the pleased little smirk on Fjord’s face, he leans down and kisses it off him. Then, as Fjord begins to soften and moan against his mouth, he pulls back. “Hold on to me,” he whispers. He reaches back and takes Fjord’s cock in one hand, bracing himself on the mattress with the other, and teases the head against his hole for a breath or two before slowly sinking down onto its girth.

The prick of Fjord’s claws against his spread thighs is quickly subsumed by the deep, sweet ache of his cock pressing deeply into his body. Fjord’s back arches, head shoved deep into the pillow and neck corded with strain as he trembles, trying to keep still. The lamplight spills over him in muted, glowing tones like the threads of a complex tapestry, and despite the overwhelming pressure of being fully seated, Caleb can’t tear his eyes away, breaths coming short and quick in his chest as he sits his full weight atop Fjord’s hips.

“Still good?” he breathes when he remembers how to speak again.

“Fuck,” Fjord says thinly. His diaphragm lifts and releases in a gusty sigh as he forcibly relaxes his grip on Caleb’s flanks. “Yeah.” He opens his eyes, deep golden slits creased with evidence of a thousand smiles. “Feels fantastic. Y’alright up there?”

“Mmmmmm.” The low hum reverberates in Caleb’s chest as he rocks forward and back, slowly, testing the weight of Fjord’s cock in him. It takes a little bit of adjustment, but Fjord is patient with him, murmuring soft encouragements as he starts to slowly, slowly move.

He wants to draw it out, take it slow, but the intense reality of Fjord _in him_ , of Fjord’s hands on his body, is starting to overtake him. He rocks up, pulling nearly all the way off, and sinks back down, feeling every ridge of Fjord’s cock catching at his rim before gliding against his prostate. He grinds down in a long, lazy circle and whimpers at the fullness. “Fjord, please—” he cries, though he doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

“Yeah. I’ve got you.” Fjord’s thumb finds the sweet ache of Caleb’s frenulum and presses, soft and insistent, and inside him his cock seems to swell just a little. “Cay—fuck, I’m close, if you don’t want me comin’ inside of you—”

“I do,” Caleb interrupts, panting as he bounces on Fjord’s cock with even more determination. “I want… Fjord…”

There is a long, stretched-out plateau where Caleb can _feel_ the imminent orgasm approaching, even as it refuses to draw near. Every detail of their joining is thrown into sharp relief: Fjord inside him, Fjord’s heavy-lidded eyes gone dark with need, Fjord’s hands on his hips and cock and belly. Their game has dissolves under the heat and pressure of their union, and he doesn’t care.

Then he feels the knot inside him pinching just a little at the rim of his asshole, squeezing against his insides, and his orgasm slams into him like hitting the water face-first. His cock spurts out from Fjord’s hand across his belly and Fjord hums contentedly, rubbing the head with his thumb as the last few drops well up and are squeezed out of him.

Gradually the aftershocks ease, and other details emerge from the haze. Namely, Fjord’s cock, still rigid and situated firmly inside his body. He plucks one of Fjord’s hand from his thigh and lifts it to his mouth for a kiss. “What do you need from me, love?”

“Nothing,” Fjord breathes, eyes half-shut and looking at nothing in particular. A vein leaps and pulses in his throat as his chin tips back and his cock swells even further, just this side of painful. “Gods— _fuck_ —”

“Beautiful.” Caleb kisses his knuckles and sucks the first two fingers into his mouth, letting the worn, sharp edges of his claws drag lines of bright sensation against his tongue. Fjord garbles out another helpless sound and Caleb can feel him coming again, a slight swelling of warmth that his brain tells him he should feel all over his thighs—somehow the lack of it is better, mutes every sensation except for the ones deep inside him, warming him from the inside out. “How many times…?”

“Not sure,” Fjord gasps. He slumps back to the mattress with a little half-swallowed groan, looking absolutely wrecked—hair askew and plastered to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed a dark green, pulse leaping visibly in the major artery in his throat. “It’s been—it’s been a little while, for me.”

“Since you’ve fucked someone, you mean?”

Fjord seems to blush even darker, though the dim light makes it difficult to tell. “Yeah. Mmm…” His nostrils flare on the inhale and he reaches for Caleb, the back of his neck, drawing him down. Caleb tries to resist putting his weight on him, still paranoid even in the latter stages of recovery, but Fjord kisses him so desperately that he can’t help himself. Fjord gives a pleased little hum and noses the line of his throat. “Are you good? Comfortable? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“Shhh. You’re fine.” Caleb lays still, buzzing with orgasm and a touch bemused but mostly just incredibly, unaccountably _fond_. Fjord’s hands rub soothing circles along his back and thighs, and he seems to be fascinated with Caleb’s throat and jaw, snuffling below his ear and rumbling contentedly, almost a purr.

“I want to treat you right,” Fjord murmurs. He massages Caleb’s skinny backside with both hands, fingers dipping down to stroke the taut skin where Fjord enters his body. Caleb is a little oversensitive, but he shivers nonetheless, rocking back onto Fjord’s cock. “You deserve it. Softness, and care… _oh_ …”

“Sweetheart,” Caleb breathes, and kisses him. It’s a strange feeling, the weight of his cock punctuated by the tight seal of Fjord’s knot inside him, the heat of his spend making everything slick and full. He reaches back behind to fondle his bollocks and Fjord whines and trembles like he’s been struck by lightning. “You’ve got another in you, I know it. C’mon, _Schatz_ , come for me. Come for your little prince…”

Fjord cries out, deep and reverberating against the cabin’s walls, and shoves up into Caleb’s body though he’s already as deep as he can go. There’s a bit of pressure inside, not quite discomfort, and Caleb feels his cock twitching limply to life again.

“Beautiful,” he says, both because the languid spread of them is starting to make him drowsy, and because he can think of no other word to describe how incandescent Fjord is in this moment. Straining and shaking and falling to pieces beneath him, all because of Caleb. He rocks to and fro very gently, testing, and bites back a little cry as Fjord’s softening cock finally eases free. Spend comes with it, more than he was expecting, and the tight feeling in his abdomen eases. Caleb shudders and drops his chin to his chest.

“Okay?” Fjord asks, still breathless and strung out, but anxious all the same. He somehow manages to prop Caleb up as his body threatens to fall forward, and turns them so that Caleb is nestled on his back and Fjord is hovering over him, hands fluttering to and fro without quite making contact. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“Fine,” Caleb sighs, curling his toes luxuriously against the sheets. He can feel cum still leaking out of him, soaking the fabric of the fucking stockings, and he can’t help giggling a little. “We’ve… well and truly ruined these, I think.”

“Mmmm.” Fjord wriggles a little further down the bed and buries his face in Caleb’s stomach, kissing the soft, tender skin below his navel and lower. His lips graze his soft prick very briefly before nuzzling back behind his bollocks. Caleb squirms, not uncomfortable but still so sensitive, and slowly starts to relax as Fjord holds his thighs apart and licks at his perineum.

“Fjord—” he begins, almost a protest. But he can feel the slow, warm drag of his tongue, the slight rumbling vibration of a purr deep inside Fjord’s chest, and he subsides against the pillows, boneless and well-fucked.

“Is this okay?” Fjord murmurs a bit later, when his careful ministrations have migrated to sucking little pink marks into the thin skin of Caleb’s inner thighs.

“Yeah,” Caleb breathes. His arms are flung out across the mattress and he thinks he’s going to melt into a puddle and evaporate with how good he feels—oversensitive, yes, but still aching for Fjord’s delicate touch. His cock is half-heartedly plump in his stockings, and plumps a little more when Fjord smiles and exhales across it, chin just barely scraping his bollocks. “Nnh… Fjord…”

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Fjord rumbles. Then tacks on, as if he’d lost his courage briefly and decided to press on, “My little prince.”

Caleb smiles through half-shut, dozing eyes and hums. “I will.”

Fjord’s grip steadies on his hips and he bows his head again. Each kiss is careful and so, so soft, each drag of his tongue so warm and tender. Any trace of embarrassment Caleb might have felt at being so exposed has entirely vanished—Fjord is so clearly enjoying himself, purr still rattling away in his chest and ears tucked coyly against the sides of his head as he layers delicate kisses against the root of his cock. And slowly, slowly, over the next several minutes, Caleb feels himself getting hard again.

“Keep going,” he whispers when it seems that Fjord might hesitate. “Maybe… take the stockings off?”

Fjord complies readily, peeling the saturated material away from his body and fishing his shirt off the floor to rub Caleb’s backside dry. Caleb squirms and whines and clutches the sheets as he sucks him into his mouth, keeping his tongue soft and his lips neatly tucked around his teeth. Orgasm is nearly an afterthought. Just a deep, tidal swell inside his pelvis, drawn out of him by the sheer weight of Fjord’s patience. He spurts a little pathetically and Fjord swallows that down, too, the pad of his thumb rubbing against his well-used hole.

“There,” Fjord murmurs when it’s over and the last of the shivers have subsided. He strokes large, warm circles into Caleb’s hips and marks a trail of kisses up his belly to his clavicle. “Beautiful, Cay. You’re gorgeous.”

All Caleb can manage in response is a breathy exhale. He grabs at Fjord’s shoulders for lack of anything else to hold onto and pulls him down with the pitiful amount of strength left in his body, and Fjord chuffs warmly as he curls around him.

“Good?” Fjord whispers into his hair. His free hand, the one not tucked beneath Caleb’s pillow, pets long, soothing strokes down his side until Caleb thinks he might just be petting him to sleep. It's certainly working.

“ _Ja… gut_.”

“Fucked the Common out of you, eh?” With a self-satisfied little snuffle into his hairline, Fjord tugs the blankets up and pulls Caleb close against him. “Go to sleep, love. Tomorrow we’ll see land again.”

Caleb mumbles something unintelligible and closes his eyes. The last coherent words in his mind are _I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a very small postscript sometime in the next week, but this is the "last chapter." Thanks for coming along for the ride ;)


	7. postscript

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final scene to polish off this fic. Thank you everyone who's read and commented, I really do appreciate it!!! <3

The sky above Port Damali is a different blue than Caleb has ever seen before. Crystalline and vast, with the meagre spires of the city jutting up toward it as if to enhance the enormity of it. There’s not a single cloud to break the rich gradient as it softens and grows pale toward the horizon, draped behind the muted heather-grey mountains in the far distance like a quilt. 

He stands at the rail in his borrowed finery, though his grey-brown cloak conceals most of it in a nod towards subtlety. Their professed plan is to take lodging in town without causing a stir, and approach his supposed family without fanfare after a few days of getting their bearings. He hasn’t bothered to lay much more groundwork—Captain Adella is still recovering from her broken collarbone, and is busy pestering the first mate to distraction, and Doctor Atweel has apparently had a change of heart about Caleb. Perhaps rescuing the entire ship from a pirate raid had something to do with it. Either way, he finds he’s no longer questioned at odd intervals about his family or his plans, and so he watches the pier of Southwalk come closer and closer without fear in his heart for the first time in weeks. 

He finds a little piece of copper wire in his pocket, placed there with a few other odds and ends in case of emergency, and twists it around his finger. “We’re almost ready to dock. Captain Adella says she knows the Dockmaster, and promises a swift disembarkment.”

 _Glad to hear it_ , comes Beau’s voice in his ear, warm and brusque and familiar. _Caddy and I are disguised as fancy-pants guards, all ready to meet you._

Caleb scans the pier with sharp eyes. He’s tempted to bring Frumpkin out to do a quick look-about, but it would require shfiting him into a bird of some sort and he has neither the time nor the components prepared. 

He hears heavy footsteps and a moment later, a hand touches his waist, gentle and familiar. 

“Ready?” Fjord asks. 

“For which part?” He tucks his hand behind his back, a touch of elegance, a smiles into the wind when Fjord’s thumb touches the center of his palm in greeting. “I’m certainly ready to take this bloody cravat off, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Fjord laughs. The ship draws nearer. Toward the end of the pier, blocked by the occasional passing sailor or attendant, he catches sight a familiar topknot and a cocky expression. Beau, dressed in unfamiliar solider’s garb, her bo staff capped with a bit of gilt paper to look more official. At her side is a tall, beefy young man with a shock of red hair—Caduceus in disguise, presumably. His heart lightens further at the sight. Soon they’ll be reuinted with their companions, the last to arrive in Port Damali. Incredibly, despite everything, he’s missed them. 

“Your things are all packed and ready to be unloaded,” Nott chirps suddenly, appearing at his side in some sort of cobbled-together valet gear. She’s wearing a halfling’s form, but the twinkle in her eye is unmistakable. “My _lord_.”

“Thank you, Nott,” Caleb says with unnecessary gravitas. His knuckles turn white on the rail and sudden nerves sweep over him. He hasn’t really spoken to Nott about her thoughts concerning his and Fjord’s… relationship. She seems to approve, in a gleeful, proud-matchmaking-mama sort of way, but it’s not much of a weather gauge by which to judge the rest of the Nein. He knows he has a bit of a reputation for being stiff and grumpy, at least in comparison to some, and that this entire cross-country adventure was technically his fault. 

“You’re nervous,” Fjord murmurs next to his ear. “It’s going to be fine.”

“There’s just… a lot of moving parts. I want this transition to go smoothly.”

“It will. Trust me—this is my city, remember?” He squeezes Caleb’s hip familiarly. “I grew up on these streets; there’s not a single alley I don’t know like the back of my hand. I’ll get us through, whatever happens.”

The reminder steadies him, and sparks a new concern. “Are _you_ all right? Returning here after so long?”

There is a telling pause. “I’ll be all right,” Fjord says at last. The dock is closer, closer. A few of the dockhands have lined up at the edge, ready to receive the _Drensala Vis_ into port. “I’ve been wanting to get back, anyhow. Track down some old contacts. See if I can figure out what happened after the _Tidesbreath_ went down.”

Caleb gives a jerky nod. Beau has caught his eye and is visibly trying not to laugh at his getup. Caleb rolls his eyes at her and feels a warm surge of fondness kindle in the pit of his stomach. 

“Whatever you need.” Caleb reaches out and grips his hand. “We’ll face it together.”

“Mmmm. I like the sound of that.” 

Fjord slips a hand around his waist, overt for the first time since he joined him at the rail. When he tugs him gently, Caleb goes, leaning into him without shame. He catches Beau’s eye, still broken occasionally by the steady stream of people moving along the dock, and smirks at the plain shock in her face when Fjord leans down and kisses his temple. 

“You missed,” Caleb says simply. 

Fjord chuffs. “You want another, little prince?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Nott declares. “Sappy again? I’ll see you on the dock.” And she does a hop-skip and a leap, and clears the few feet left between the rock and the _Drensala_ ’s starboard side. 

“She’s not a very good valet, is she?” Fjord muses, looking after her. 

“She’ll learn.” With a commanding little sniff, Caleb tugs on Fjord’s embroidered vest until he bends and kisses him full on the mouth. Caleb leans into it, humming around his tusks and licking their tongues together in full view of the gods and everyone, and when he plunks back down onto his heels there’s more than one cheer and wolf-whistle—Beau is one of them, he’s pretty sure. He grins and strokes Fjord’s curls back from his face. “For luck.”

Fjord grins, dazzling, and presses a kiss to his hair. “You’re all the luck I need, Widogast. And I’m not lettin’ you go.”

“Good. The sentiment is mutual.” 

With a little sigh, Caleb steps back and rights Fjord’s vest, then his own jacket. There’s a bump and scrape of wood as the ship meets the dock, the shouts of sailors, the snap of rope being affixed to poles. Captain Adella hails them and approaches, one arm still in a sling and the other bearing the ship’s manifest tucked carefully against her side. 

“I’m almost sorry to see you go,” she says, nodding to them both. “If you change your mind, de Marco, I could always use a proper ship’s mage on board.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Caleb says politely. A few weeks ago part of him might have been tempted, but he’s ready to stick to dry land for a little while now. 

“We’ll be docked here for a week or so to make repairs and restock, and then it’s off to Tal’dorei.” She wiggles her eyebrows meaningfully. “It’s a beautiful country. Plenty of adventure to be had.”

“Maybe next time,” Fjord interjects. He nods deeply, almost a bow, in lieu of a handshake. “Thank you for taking us on, Captain. It was a… well, it was entertaining, that’s for certain.”

“Altogether too entertaining for me, personally, but such is the way of the sea.” She waves the dockmaster on board. “Excuse me for a moment. Just some paperwork to see to and you’re home free.”

Caleb turns his back on the dockmaster, still skittish at being recognized—even here, the farthest from home he’s ever been—and finds himself face to face with Fjord’s chest. He looks up and smiles, half-cocked, fingers hooking themselves by instinct in the toggles of his vest. “You look strange without your armor to me still.”

“And you look strange without your coat.” Fjord’s eyes gleam. “Incredibly attractive, yes, but… strange.”

Caleb’s lips quirk. “You know, as much as I’m eager to get into my own clothes, if you ever want me to wear stockings to bed, all you have to do is ask.”

“Noted.” Fjord looks a little flushed, now, but he masks his expression as Adella returns to them, papers apparently in order. 

“You can disembark at your leisure, m’lord,” she says with put-upon professionalism. “Safe journeys, wherever your road takes you.”

“And the same to you,” Caleb says, warm and buzzing with relief. He grabs Fjord’s hand and tucks it in the crook of his elbow. It steadies him as they walk together, arm in arm, to the sturdy weatherworn dock, comforting in his breast like the tune of familiar song played just out of reach. 


End file.
